This is the joyous city that dwelt carelessly, that said in her heart, I am, and there is none besides me: how is she become a desolation, a place for beasts to lie down in! every one that passeth by her shall hiss, and wag his hand.
Þis is þe gloriouse citee dwellynge in trist, which seide in hir herte, Y am, and þer is noon oþer more withouten me. Hou is it maad vnto desert, a couche of beeste; ech man þat schal passe bi it, schal hisse, and schal moue his hond.