“Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat;”
Who sings for nobles, he should noble be.
There's no non sequitur, I think, in that,
And this is logic plain as a, b, c.
Now, Hector Stuart, you're a Scottish prince,
If right you fathom your descent — that fall
From grace; and since you have no peers, and since
You have no kind of nobleness at all,
‘ Twere better to sing little, lest you wince
When made by heartless critics to sing small.
And yet, my liege, I bid you not despair —
Ambition conquers but a realm at once:
For European bays arrange your hair —
Two continents, in time, shall crown you Dunce!