'Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive, (205)
And be an eye-sore in my golden coat; (206)
Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive, (207)
To cipher me how fondly I did dote; (208)
That my posterity, shamed with the note,
Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin (210)
To wish that I their father had not bin.