Truly less I cannot do
Than prepare a line or two
For my little namesake, which
Prisoner is for spot on breech.

[a few illegible lines in the manuscript]

What caused spots, if you must know,
‘Twas his honesty, in truth.
Sweet lad, I devoutly pray
Thou death’s tribute mayst withhold
Till that age th’art of today
Over forty times be told,
In which time mayst thou acquire
So much wealth & wisdom too
As your noble great grandsire
& then make your exit. So
He began, just as you do,
Born alike & named & nursed.
He was this, I’ll tell you too,
Chanc’llor of the rattle first.
This I hope will come to pass.
Oh, though I first dead must be.
While I live then here’s a glass
‘Bove the brim to little he.
(From the manuscript in the Bridgewater Collection, Huntington Library, San Marino, California.)