¶ The Troyens fledde, for thei hadde nede; [folio 224b]
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Thei were echon In gret drede
For tho that Gregeis ouer-toke,
Afftir lyff myght thei not loke.
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Thei sclow the Troyens many on
And wounded also gret won;
But alle that hadde space to fle
Flow In-to Troye, the strong Cite,
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And spered the ȝates with keye & lokke
To kepe out the Gregeis folke.
¶ The Cite ȝates are sperd & stoken,
That thei be not on hem broken;
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And thei wente alle In-to her Innes.
But Hectuba, the quene, not blynnes
Reuful sorwe & dele to make
For doghti Troyle, her sones, sake;
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For ȝit he liggis vpon molde,
I-buried In clothes of golde.
PRiamus wepis and makes mone,
And so do alle the lordes echone,
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Paris wepis for him sore,
And so did his suster wel more,
That faire mayden Pollexene,
And Eche burgeis & Citeȝene.
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For eche man cares now for his lyff,
For his children, & for his wiff.
For Mennoun kyng were thei sori,
Ther was non that he ne was drery.
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¶ Now is Ector ded, and Dephebus,
Troyle also the vigorous,
And sir Mennoun, the doghti kyng.
"Alas, Alas!" thei gan to syng,
Line 15228
For hem is lefft none but Paris,
Now of Troye is litel Prys. [The rubricator forgot to paint over the small p.]
