If his children are multiplied, it is for the sword, and his descendants have not enough bread. Those who survive him the pestilence buries, and his widows do not weep. Though he heap up silver like dust, and pile up clothing like clay, he may pile it up, but the righteous will wear it, and the innocent will divide the silver. He builds his house like a moth’s, like a booth that a watchman makes. He goes to bed rich, but will do so no more; he opens his eyes, and his wealth is gone.
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