I am this day fourscore years old. Are my senses quick to discern sweet and bitter? Or can meat or drink delight thy servant? Or can I hear any more the voice of singing men and singing women? Why should thy servant be a burden to my lord, the king?
He answered: The days of my pilgrimage are a hundred and thirty years, few, and evil. And they are not come up to the days of the pilgrimage of my fathers.
They are lifted up for a little while and shall not stand, and shall be brought down as all things, and shall be taken away: and as the tops of the ears of corn they shall be broken.
My generation is at an end; and it is rolled away from me, as a shepherd's tent. My life is cut off, as by a weaver: whilst I was yet but beginning, he cut me off. From morning even to night thou wilt make an end of me.
As strong as I was at that time when I was sent to view the land: the strength of that time continueth in me until this day, as well to fight as to march.