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