As a thorn that goeth up into the hand of a drunkard, So is a parable in the month of fools
They have stricken me, shalt thou say, and I was not hurt; They have beaten me, and I felt it not: When shall I awake? I will seek it yet again.
As an archer that woundeth all, So is he that hireth the fool and he that hireth them that pass by.
As a bag of gems in a heap of stones, So is he that giveth honour to a fool.