So dyd not the one, and yet had he an excellente spirite. What dyd then the one? He sought the sede promised of God. Therfore loke well to your spirit, and let no man despise the wyfe of his youth.
Youre hye feastes wyll I turne to sorowe, and youre songes to mournynge: I wyll bringe sack cloth vpon al backes, and baldnes vpon euery head: yee soch a mournynge wyll I sende them, as is made vpon an only begotten sonne, and they shall haue a miserable ende.
Daleth. The streates of Sion mourne, because no man commeth more to the solempne feastes. All her gates are desolate, her prestes make lamentacyon, her maydens are carefulll, and she her selfe is in greate heuynesse.