And they have sat each under his vine, And under his fig-tree, And there is none troubling, For the mouth of Jehovah of Hosts hath spoken.

Now, why dost thou shout aloud? A king -- is there none in thee? Hath thy counsellor perished, That taken hold of thee hath pain as a travailing woman?

And have cut off sorcerers out of thy hand, And observers of clouds thou hast none.

Perished hath the kind out of the land, And upright among men -- there are none, All of them for blood lie in wait, Each his brother they hunt with a net.