Because it shut not up the doors of my mother’s womb, nor hid sorrow from my eyes.

Why did the knees receive me? or why the breasts that I should nurse?

Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble.

As a snail who melts, let every one of them pass away: like the untimely birth of a woman, that they may not see the sun.

For we are consumed by your anger, and by your wrath are we troubled.

For all our days are passed away in your wrath: we spend our years as a tale that is told.