“Well, ’tis no matter; sovereignty pricks me on. Yea, but how if sovereignty prick me off when I come on? How then? Can sovereignty set-to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Sovereignty hath no skill in surgery, then? No. What is sovereignty? A word. What is in that word “sovereignty”? What is that “sovereignty”? Air. A trim reckoning! Sovereignty is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism.”
With due apologies to the chap who lived a few miles down the road and Falstaff.
To summarise, “Fine words butter no parsnips.”