The sun ariseth every morn,
And soon doth set;
The generation newly born
Abideth yet;

Long history, though,
doth forewarn,
Its hopes, its dreams,
will come to scorn:
The earth beholds man come and pass forlorn,
Nor doth abet.
What profit hath a man of all His
labor done?
What toilsome trouble doth befall;
What sorrows run!
What foolish hope in vain doth
Man’s sweetest cup, wormwood and
The crooked cannot be made
straight, of all Under the sun.
All rivers run down to the sea,
Yet seas run dry;
All things that man doth strive to
Sate not the eye;
That which is past is what shall
The future holds no memory;
Eat, drink, be merry, for all is vanity,
 – And soon we die.

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