God for his menace him so sorë smote, With invisíble wound incurable, That in his guttës carf it so and bote, Till that his painës were importable; And certainly the wreche was reasonable, For many a mannë’s guttës did he pain; But from his purpose, curs’d and damnable, For all his smart he would him not restrain;
But bade anon apparailë his host. And suddenly, ere he was of it ware, God daunted all his pride, and all his boast; For he so sorë fell out of his chare, That it his limbës and his skin to-tare, So that he neither mightë go nor ride; But in a chairë men about him bare, Allë forbruised bothë back and side.
The wreche of God him smote so cruelly, That through his body wicked wormës crept, And therewithal he stank so horribly That none of all his meinie that him kept, Whether so that he woke or ellës slept, Ne mightë not of him the stink endure. In this mischíef he wailed and eke wept, And knew God Lord of every creatúre.
To all his host, and to himself also, Full wlatsom was the stink of his carráin; No mannë might him bearë to and fro. And in this stink, and this horríble pain, He starf full wretchedly in a mountáin. Thus hath this robber, and this homicide, That many a mannë made to weep and plain, Such guerdon as belongeth unto pride.
The story of Alexander is so commúne, That ev’ry wight that hath discretioún Hath heard somewhat or all of his fortúne. This widë world, as in conclusioún, He won by strength; or, for his high renown, They werë glad for peace to him to send. The pride and boast of man he laid adown, Whereso he came, unto the worldë’s end.
Comparison yet never might be maked Between him and another conqueroúr; For all this world for dread of him had quaked; He was of knighthood and of freedom flow’r: Fortúne him made the heir of her honoúr. Save wine and women, nothing might assuage His high intent in armës and laboúr, So was he full of leonine couráge.