Your heir he can be and your heir he will be,
His stars ascend, you do not dream how high,
Else would they mock him for a zither-twanger
And they’d believe, as I myself believe,
That only birds possess the songful throat
Whose claws are clipped by shears that know their work,
But now they deem him, since he’s apt at song,
If not yet Phoebus’ self, at least his son.
Kan.
That mazes you? Why, he has conquered them.