Job Continues: Life Seems Futile

1Is not the life off ma vpon earth a very batayll? Are not his dayes, like the dayes of an hyred seruaunte?

2For like as a bonde seruaunt desyreth the shadowe, and as an hyrelinge wolde fayne haue an ende of his worke:

3Euen so haue I laboured whole monethes longe (but in vayne) and many a carefull night haue I tolde.

4When I layed me downe to slepe, I sayde: O when shal I ryse? Agayne, I longed sore for the night. Thus am I full off sorowe, till it be darcke.

5My flesh is clothed with wormes, fylthinesse and dust: my skynne is wythered, and crompled together:

6my dayes passe ouer more spedely, the a weeuer can weeue out his webbe, and are gone, or I am awarre.

7O remembre, that my life is but a wynde, ad that myne eye shal nomore se the pleasures

8therof yee and that none other mans eye shall se me eny more. For yf thou fasten thine eyes vpon me, I come to naught like

9as a cloude is cosumed and vanyshed awaye, euen so he that goeth downe to hell, commeth nomore vp,

10ner turneth agayne in to his house, nether shall his place knowe him eny more.

11Therfore I will not spare my mouth, but will speake in the trouble of my sprete, in ye bytternesse of my mynde will I talke.

12Am I a see or a whalfysh, that thou kepest me so in preson?

13When I thynke: my bedd shall comforte me, I shall haue some refresshinge by talkynge with myself vpon my couche:

14The troublest thou me with dreames, ad makest me so afrayed thorow visions,

15that my soule wyssheth rather to be hanged, and my bones to be deed.

16I can se no remedy, I shall lyue nomore: O spare me then, for my dayes are but vayne

17What is man, that thou hast him in soch reputacion, and settest so moch by him?

18Thou takest diligent care for him, and sodely doest thou trye him.

19Why goest thou not fro me, ner lettest me alone, so longe till I swalow downe my spetle?

20I haue offended, what shal I do vnto ye, O thou preseruer off men? Why hast thou made me to stonde in thy waye, and am so heuy a burden vnto myself?

21Why doest thou not forgeue me my synne? Wherfore takest thou not awaye my wickednesse? Beholde, now must I slepe in the dust: and yff thou sekest me tomorow in the mornynge, I shalbe gone.