²⁸ The son of the bow doth not cause him to flee, Turned by him into stubble are stones of the sling.

⁷ He doth laugh at the multitude of a city, The cries of an exactor he heareth not.

¹⁰ And at kings it doth scoff, And princes `are' a laughter to it, At every fenced place it doth laugh, And it heapeth up dust, and captureth it.