Woe is me! for I am as when they have gathered the summer fruits, as the grape gleanings of the vintage: there is no cluster to eat; my soul desireth the first-ripe fig.
Wo to me, for Y am maad as he þat gaderith in heruest rasyns of grapis; þere is no clustre for to ete; my soule desiride figis ripe bifore oþere.