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'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.

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