There's Hope A Great Man's Memory May

O, My Offence Is Rank, It Smells To Heaven

Many Strokes, Though With A Little Axe, Hew Down And Fell The Hardest-timber'd Oak.

Ay, Is It Not A Language I Speak?

Our Remedies Oft In Ourselves Do Lie, Which We Ascribe To Heaven.

Yea From The Table Of My Memory I'll Wipe Away All Trivial Fond Records.