Job 7

Matthew(i) 1 Is not the lyfe of man vpon earth a verye batayl? Are not hys daies lyke the daies of an hired seruaunte? 2 For lyke as a bonde seruaunt desyreth the shadowe, and as an hyrelynge woulde fayne haue an ende of hys worcke: 3 Euen so haue I laboured whole monethes longe (but in vayne) and manye a carefull nyght haue I tolde. 4 When I layed me downe to slepe, I sayde: O when shall I ryse? Agayne, I longed sore for the night. Thus am I full of sorowe, tyll it be darcke. 5 My fleshe is clothed wyth wormes, fylthynesse and dust: my skynne is wythered, and crompled together: 6 my dayes passe ouer more spedelye, then a weeuer can weeue out his webbe: and are gone, or I am a warre. 7 O remembre, that my lyfe is but a wynde, and that myne eye shall nomore se the pleasures 8 therof, ye & that none other mans eye shall se me eny more. For yf thou fasten thyne eyes vpon me, I come to naught lyke 9 as a cloude is consumed & vanisshed a waye euen so he that goeth downe to hell, commeth nomore vp, 10 ner turneth agayne into hys house, nether shall hys place knowe him eny more. 11 Therfore I wyll not spare my mouth, but will speake in the trouble of my sprete, in the bytternesse of my mynde wyll I talke. 12 Am I a see or a whalfysh, that thou kepest me so in preson? 13 When I thynke: my bed shall comforte me. I shall haue some refresshynge by talckinge by my self vpon my couche: 14 Then troublest thou me with dreames, and makest me so afrayed thorowe visions, 15 that my soule wyssheth rather to be strangled, and my bones to be deed. 16 I can se no remedy, I shall loue nomore: O spare me then, for my dayes are but vayne 17 What is man, that thou hast hym in soch reputacyon, and settest somoch by hym? 18 Thou takest diligent care for hym, & sodenly doest thou trye hym. 19 Why goest thou not from me, ner lettest me alone, so longe tyll I swalowe doune my spetle? 20 I haue offended, what shall I do vnto the, O thou preseruer of men? Why hast thou made me to stande in thy way, and am so heuy a burden vnto my selfe? 21 Why doest thou not forgeue me my synne? Wherfore takeste thou not awaye my wyckednesse. Beholde, now must I slepe in the dust: & yf thou sekest me to morow in the morning, I shalbe gone.