8 She doth prepare in summer her bread, She hath gathered in harvest her food.
9 Till when, O slothful one, dost thou lie? When dost thou arise from thy sleep?
10 A little sleep, a little slumber, A little clasping of the hands to rest,
11 And thy poverty hath come as a traveller, And thy want as an armed man.
12 A man of worthlessness, a man of iniquity, Walking 'with' perverseness of mouth,
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