Goodbye, the child of my right hand, and happiness, my wrongs was to much of a hope for me, my loved boy. Seven years were lent to me, and I paid for it, exactly by fate, on that day. I could lose my father now! Why will man change the state he envys? To have to soon scratched the world’s and the human rage, and if there is no other sadness, apart from age? Rest in quiet peace, and, I asked, say, “Here lies Ben Johnson his piece of poetry.” For his sake from now on all his promises be kept, as what he loves may never like him too much.