Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy, Seven years thou went lent to me, and I thee pay, Exacted by the fate, on the just day. O, could I lose all father, now. For why will man lament the state he should envy? To have so soon scaped world's, and flesh's rage, and, if no toher misery, yet age? Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry. For whose sake, henceforth, all his vows be such, as what he loves may never like too much.

-- Susan (SPARKLESKAKA421@aol.com), February 03, 2000