Farewell， thou child of my right hand， and joy；

    My sin was too much hope of thee， lov'd boy.

    Seven years thou'wert lent to me， and I thee pay，

    Exacted by thy fate， on the just day.

    O， could I lose all father now！ For why

    Will man lament¹ the state he should envy？

    To have so soon 'scap'd world's and flesh's rage，

    And， if no other misery²， yet age？

    Rest in soft peace， and， ask'd， say here doth lie

    Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.

    For whose sake， henceforth， all his vows³ be such，

    As what he loves may never like too much.