YLT(i)
1 My woe is to me, for I have been As gatherings of summer-fruit, As gleanings of harvest, There is no cluster to eat, The first-ripe fruit desired hath my soul.
2 Perished hath the kind out of the land, And upright among men—there are none, All of them for blood lie in wait, Each his brother they hunt with a net.
3 On the evil are both hands to do it well, The prince is asking—also the judge—for recompence, And the great—he is speaking the mischief of his soul, And they wrap it up.
4 Their best one is as a brier, The upright one—than a thorn-hedge, The day of thy watchmen—Thy visitation—hath come. Now is their perplexity.