There is yet a plage vnder ye Sonne, & it is a generall thinge amonge me:

when God geueth a man riches, goodes & honoure, so that he wanteth nothinge of all that his herte can desyre: and yet God geueth him not leue to enioye the same, but another man spedeth them. This is a vayne thinge & a miserable plage.

Yf a man begett an hundreth children, and lyue many yeares, so that his dayes are many in nombre, and yet can not enioye his good, nether be buried: as for him I saye, that an vntymely byrth is better then he.

For he cometh to naught, & goeth his waye in to darcknes, and his name is forgotten.

Morouer, he seyth not the Sonne, and knoweth of no rest nether here ner there:

Yee though he lyued two thousande yeares, yet hath he no good life. Come not all to one place?

All the laboure that a man taketh, is for himself, and yet his desyre is neuer fylled after his mynde.

For what hath the wyse more then the foole? What helpeth it the poore, that he knoweth to walke before the lyuynge?

The sight of the eyes is better, then that the soule shulde so departe awaye. Howbeit this is also a vayne thinge and a disquietnesse of mynde.

What is more excellent then man? yet can he not in the lawe get the victory of him that is mightier the he:

A vayne thinge is it to cast out many wordes, but what hath a man els?

For who knoweth what is good for man lyuynge, in ye dayes of his vayne life, which is but a shadowe? Or, who wil tell a man, what shal happen after him vnder the Sonne?