Great(i)
17 Moreouer, thus sayeth the Lord of Hostes. Beware of the vengeaunce that hangeth ouer you: and cal for mourning wyues, & sende for wyse wemen: that they come shortly,
18 and synge a mournynge songe of you: that the teares may fall out of oure eyes, and that our eye lyddes maye gusshe out of water.
19 For there is a lamentable noyse hearde of Sion. O how are we so sore destroyed? O how are we so pyteously confounded? We must forsake our awne naturall countre, & we are shut out of oure awne lodgynges.