But man is born unto trouble, As the sparks fly upward.
The appetite of the laboring man laboreth for him; For his mouth urgeth him (thereto).
There is one that is alone, and he hath not a second; yea, he hath neither son nor brother; yet is there no end of all his labor, neither are his eyes satisfied with riches. For whom then, (saith he), do I labor, and deprive my soul of good? This also is vanity, yea, it is a sore travail.
Moreover the profit of the earth is for all: the king (himself) is served by the field.