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Thay trumpit vp, and past ane litill thyne
In-till ane land was callit Palusyne
And in ane ciete callit Parassola,
Quhare worthy chere till all þe ost þai ma,
And restit þame, and wichtly drank þe wyne,
And mony wourthy giftis gaif him syne.
The ciete was of pretius stanis dere,
Quhilkis fundin war into þe selff ryver.

That nycht the king fenȝete all countenance,
And preissit him for to mak fare semblance,
Bot in his hart he was na thing apayid,
Sa for dede his nature was affrayid;
And ȝitt for Porrus was he dredand mare,
That he suld nocht persaue him into care,
And before all men he preist to mak gude chere;
Bot him allane he made ane hidduous bere,
Sayand, “Allace, sall I ga to þe dede
Fra all this warld so sone in my ȝoutheid?”
The lordis [e]ft aspyit him, þat him luffit,
And of his dolloure sare þai him repruffit,
And, that he wald nocht tell þame how it stude,
Thai traistit that his ansure was nocht gude.
Bot all þare langage made him [na] remeid,
His hart sa growit for þe dynt of dede,
And mony tymes he drew be him allane,
And havalie murnyt and made his mane,
Sayand, “Now se I wele þis warld is nocht—
Giff I haue honoure, dere I haue it bocht;
Ȝitt haue I nocht fulfillit my conquest,
And I had neuer ane day till end of rest,
Bot quhylum thrist, quhill hunger, and quhill hete,
Richt litill slipe, nocht half my fill of mete,
Quhille dungin wele, with starkis sare wele beft,
Grete tressou[re] wonnying, and litill to me left,
And tynt my frendis, with mony wourthy man,
Ane hundreth thousand sen þis were began.
Quhat proffittis me þis conquest I mak here,
Sen I mon dee, and leiff nane heretere?
The gold I wyn, I spendis all away,
The lordschipis and þe landis lyis quhare þai lay,
And eftir me sall cum new conqueriouris,
And I mon de in ȝouthede in my flouris.
Quhat will my moder say, Olimpias,
Quhilk mony ane thousand tymes will say, “Allace!”?
And als my spous, of Pers the Emprise,
The quhilk ane wourthy woman is and a wise;
Quhat will thay say, of Grece and Macedone?
Quha will cum efter me to claim þe croun?
Quhat will my maister Arestotill say?
I was nevir vele sen þat he past away—
Quhill I had him, I had na dred of dede;
He is now sa fer, he may sett na remede.”
With that his lordis come and stude him by,
And blythit him of his malancoly;
Sum of þame said þat thai persauit ane sprete,
And sperit at him gif he was war of it,
In-to the garding quhare he was him-sell,
A mekill blake man, like ane feynd of Hell;
Bot he wald na thing say, bot held him still,
And wauld na thing declare þame of his will.