He's a prig. He's royalty and he can't get over it.

It is easier to make a saint out of a libertine then out of a prig

Royal blood isn't blue, it is a jaundiced shade of red and riddled with broken chromosomes

I am monarch of all I survey, My right there is none to dispute, From the centre all round to the sea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute.

Now let us sing, long live the king.

Many a crown Covers bald foreheads.