Even of late my people have risen up as an enemy: you pull off the robe with the garment from them that pass by trustingly, as men returning from war.

You shall sow, but you shall not reap; you shall tread the olives, but you shall not anoint yourself with oil; and make sweet wine, but shall not drink wine.

Woe is me! for I am as when they have gathered the summer fruits, as the grape gleanings of the vintage: there is no cluster to eat: my soul desired the first ripe fruit.