Some potent bird of prey they ought to find,
  A foe profess’d to him, and all his kind: 
  Some haggard Hawk, who had her eyrie nigh,
  Well pounced to fasten, and well wing’d to fly;
  One they might trust, their common wrongs to wreak: 
  The Musquet and the Coystrel were too weak, 1120
  Too fierce the Falcon; but, above the rest,
  The noble Buzzard[137] ever pleased me best;
  Of small renown, ’tis true; for, not to lie,
  We call him but a Hawk by courtesy. 
  I know he hates the Pigeon-house and Farm,
  And more, in time of war has done us harm: 
  But all his hate on trivial points depends;
  Give up our forms, and we shall soon be friends. 
  For Pigeons’ flesh he seems not much to care;
  Cramm’d chickens are a more delicious fare. 1130
  On this high potentate, without delay,
  I wish you would confer the sovereign sway: 
  Petition him to accept the government,
  And let a splendid embassy be sent.

    This pithy speech prevail’d, and all agreed,
  Old enmities forgot, the Buzzard should succeed.

    Their welcome suit was granted soon as heard,
  His lodgings furnish’d, and a train prepared,
  With B’s upon their breast, appointed for his guard. 
  He came, and crown’d with great solemnity; 1140
  God save king Buzzard, was the general cry.

    A portly prince, and goodly to the sight,
  He seem’d a son of Anak for his height: 
  Like those whom stature did to crowns prefer: 
  Black-brow’d, and bluff, like Homer’s Jupiter: 
  Broad-back’d, and brawny-built for love’s delight;
  A prophet form’d to make a female proselyte. 
  A theologue more by need than genial bent;
  By breeding sharp, by nature confident. 
  Interest in all his actions was discern’d; 1150
  More learn’d than honest, more a wit than learn’d: 
  Or forced by fear, or by his profit led,
  Or both conjoin’d, his native clime he fled: 
  But brought the virtues of his heaven along;
  A fair behaviour, and a fluent tongue. 
  And yet with all his arts he could not thrive;
  The most unlucky parasite alive. 
  Loud praises to prepare his paths he sent,
  And then himself pursued his compliment;
  But by reverse of fortune chased away, 1160
  His gifts no longer than their author stay: 
  He shakes the dust against the ungrateful race,
  And leaves the stench of ordures in the place. 
  Oft has he flatter’d and blasphemed the same;
  For in his rage he spares no sovereign’s name: 
  The hero and the tyrant change their style
  By the same measure that they frown or smile. 
  When well received by hospitable foes,
  The kindness he returns, is to expose: 
  For courtesies, though undeserved and great, 1170