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17 Thy chosen men are as the locusts, and thy captains as swarms of grasshoppers, which camp in the hedges in the cold day: when the sun ariseth they flee away, and their place is not known where they are.

18 Thy shepherds slumber, O king of Assyria; thy nobles lie still; thy people are scattered upon the mountains, and no man gathereth them.

19 There is no healing of thy breach; thy wound is grievous; all that hear the report of thee clap the hands over thee; for upon whom hath not thy wickedness passed continually?

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