Coverdale(i)
3 For the lippes of an harlot are a droppinge hony combe, and hir throte is softer then oyle.
4 But at ye last she is as bitter as wormwod, and as sharpe as a two edged swerde.
5 Hir fete go downe vnto death, and hir steppes pearse thorow vnto hell.
6 She regardeth not the path of life, so vnstedfast are hir wayes, that thou canst not knowe them.
7 Heare me therfore (o my sonne) and departe not fro the wordes of my mouth.
8 Kepe thy waye farre from her, and come not nye ye dores of hir house.