With ill men draw me not away that work iniquity; That speak peace to their friends, while in their hearts doth mischief lie.
More smooth than butter were his words, while in his heart was war; His speeches were more soft than oil, and yet drawn swords they are.
Unto his neighbour ev'ry one doth utter vanity: They with a double heart do speak, and lips of flattery.
With sinners gather not my soul, and such as blood would spill:
They only plot to cast him down from his excellency: They joy in lies; with mouth they bless, but they curse inwardly.
He mischief, lying on his bed, most cunningly doth plot: He sets himself in ways not good, ill he abhorreth not.
Thou hast it seen; for their mischief and spite thou wilt repay: The poor commits himself to thee; thou art the orphan's stay.
Behold, he with iniquity doth travail, as in birth; A mischief he conceived hath, and falsehood shall bring forth.
Why dost thou boast, O mighty man, of mischief and of ill? The goodness of Almighty God endureth ever still.
His mouth with cursing, fraud, deceit, is fill'd abundantly; And underneath his tongue there is mischief and vanity.
My heart incline thou not unto the ills I should abhor, To practise wicked works with men that work iniquity; And with their delicates my taste let me not satisfy.