'Till when, ye simple, do ye love simplicity? And have scorners their scorning desired? And do fools hate knowledge?

And the path of the righteous is as a shining light, Going and brightening till the day is established,

Till when, O slothful one, dost thou lie? When dost thou arise from thy sleep?

Come, we are filled with loves till the morning, We delight ourselves in loves.

Till an arrow doth split his liver, As a bird hath hastened unto a snare, And hath not known that it is for its life.

A froward man sendeth forth contention, A tale-bearer is separating a familiar friend.

The words of a tale-bearer are as self-inflicted wounds, And they have gone down to the inner parts of the heart.

Better to dwell in a wilderness land, Than with a woman of contentions and anger.

Without wood is fire going out, And without a tale-bearer, contention ceaseth,

The words of a tale-bearer are as self-inflicted wounds, And they have gone down to the inner parts of the heart.

A fool bringeth out all his mind, And the wise till afterwards restraineth it.