My Lord Poet

'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!