We live in an age when the old media claim to be the voices of calmness and reason amid the storm, comparing themselves favourably with the lawless frontier towns and torch-wielding Twittermobs of social media.
Dost hear? said Ecce Homo to the proletaire, listen, we are called to table.
The Emprice heiring yᵉ child ᵹit was not deid / Ane new conſait than tuik ſcho in hir heid, / Throw all the toun gart fle in alkin artis / The carage hors yat wald draw wanis & cartis / And fillit the ſame with alkin kinde of geir, / Hir Ornamentis and clais that ſcho ſuld weir. / Maid hir to pas vnto hir Father hame, / Saying ſcho wald na langer thoill ſic ſchame.
The Empress hearing the child yet was not dead / A new conceit then took she in her head, / Through all the town, [she] made flight in all directions / The carriage horse yet would draw wains and carts / And filled the same with all kinds of gear, / Her ornaments and clothes that she should wear. / Made her to pass unto her father's home, / Saying she would no longer thole [endure] such shame.
