A scheming prince who in another time
Would almost certainly have found a place
In Oxford's laddish club for toffs, the crime
He'd once concealed, filed as an unsolved case,
En route through London's thronging streets
Noisy with feigned or unfeigned acclamation,
Hopes to negate a usurping father's feats
By his forthcoming chruch-blest coronation.

But look, he's stopped and turned aside
To quell uproarious former friends, outface
The cheerful, fat old man and snidely chide
His failing powers with implied commonplace
Of doubtful provenance. For who dares boast
Of being wise by living longer than the most?