In vain was all our labour, poison hath our wine become, the evil eye hath singed yellow our fields and hearts. Arid have we all become; and fire falling upon us, then do we turn dust like ashes:—yea, the fire itself have we made aweary. All our fountains have dried up, even the sea hath receded. All the ground trieth to gape, but the depth will not swallow! 'Alas! where is there still a sea in which one could be drowned?' so soundeth our plaint—across shallow swamps. Verily, even for dying have we become too weary; now do we keep awake and live on—in sepulchres."
