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!