Fy on the foolish who would have it out of hand bann’d!
Wherefore yet once more I say:
Through folly falls poesy to decay.
Prince, to poesy I will set my mind
And to its doctrine be faithfully inclined,
For it may be come at none other way.
But to the crafty seemeth it ever unkind
That the foolish be to poesy blind.
To hear this goodly ballat great press of folk gathered and Moonen beholding this did after his hellish kind and stirred among them such strife that one among the folk was stabbed to death. And he who did this had his head smote off. Thus Emma and Moonen lived at Antwerp at the sign of the “Golden Tree” in the market, where daily of his contriving were many murders and slayings together with every sort of wickedness. In the which he greatly rejoiced, saying with himself thus:
What prodigy can I do?