She, weepeth sore, in the night, and, her tear, is on her cheek, She hath none to comfort her, of all her lovers, - All her friends, have betrayed her, have become her foes.

Blinded with tears are mine eyes, In ferment is my body, Poured out to the earth is my grief, for the sore hurt of the daughter of my people, - when child and suckling are swooning, in the broadways of the city.

Surely he hath not afflicted from his heart, nor caused sorrow to the sons of men.