Yet man is born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward.
He that laboureth laboureth for himself; for his mouth craveth it of him.
There is one alone, and there is not a second; yea, he hath neither child nor brother: yet is there no end of all his labour; neither is his eye satisfied with riches; neither saith he, For whom do I labour, and bereave my soul of good? This is also vanity, yea, it is a sore travail.
Moreover the profit of the earth is for all: the king himself is served by the field.