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.
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.
