To their mothers, they keep saying, Where are corn and wine? Swooning off, like one thrust through, in the broadways of the city, pouring out their life into the bosom of their mothers.

Thou hast screened thyself with the clouds, that prayer, should not pass through;

Better are the slain of the sword, than the slain of the famine, - for, these, pine away, stricken through, wanting the produce of the field.