Raise a melody, and strike the timbrel, The lyre so sweet, with the harp:

Their judges, have been hurled down by a crag, Now have men heard my sayings, for they have become sweet.

Ears, have they, but they hear not, A nose, have they, but they smell not:

More desirable, than gold, yea than much fine gold, Sweeter, also than honey, or than droppings from the comb.