An exactor layeth a snare for all that he hath, And strangers spoil his labour.
He is giving back `what' he laboured for, And doth not consume `it'; As a bulwark `is' his exchange, and he exults not.
Whose harvest the hungry doth eat, And even from the thorns taketh it, And the designing swallowed their wealth.
and thou hast been gropling at noon, as the blind gropeth in darkness; and thou dost not cause thy ways to prosper; and thou hast been only oppressed and plundered all the days, and there is no saviour.