No gratitude in felon-minds beget;
  As tribute to his wit, the churl receives the treat. 
  His praise of foes is venomously nice;
  So touch’d, it turns a virtue to a vice: 
  “A Greek, and bountiful, forewarns us twice.” 
  Seven sacraments he wisely does disown,
  Because he knows Confession stands for one;
  Where sins to sacred silence are convey’d,
  And not for fear, or love, to be betray’d: 
  But he, uncall’d, his patron to control, 1180
  Divulged the secret whispers of his soul;
  Stood forth the accusing Satan of his crimes,
  And offer’d to the Moloch of the times. 
  Prompt to assail, and careless of defence,
  Invulnerable in his impudence,
  He dares the world; and, eager of a name,
  He thrusts about, and jostles into fame. 
  Frontless, and satire-proof, he scours the streets,
  And runs an Indian-muck at all he meets. 
  So fond of loud report, that not to miss 1190
  Of being known (his last and utmost bliss)
  He rather would be known for what he is.

   Such was, and is, the Captain of the Test,
  Though half his virtues are not here express’d;
  The modesty of fame conceals the rest. 
  The spleenful Pigeons never could create
  A prince more proper to revenge their hate: 
  Indeed, more proper to revenge, than save;
  A king, whom in his wrath the Almighty gave: 
  For all the grace the landlord had allow’d, 1200
  But made the Buzzard and the Pigeons proud;
  Gave time to fix their friends, and to seduce the crowd. 
  They long their fellow-subjects to enthral,
  Their patron’s promise into question call,
  And vainly think he meant to make them lords of all.

   False fears their leaders fail’d not to suggest,
  As if the Doves were to be dispossess’d;
  Nor sighs, nor groans, nor goggling eyes did want;
  For now the Pigeons too had learn’d to cant. 
  The house of prayer is stock’d with large increase; 1210
  Nor doors nor windows can contain the press: 
  For birds of every feather fill the abode;
  Even Atheists out of envy own a God: 
  And, reeking from the stews, adulterers come,
  Like Goths and Vandals to demolish Rome. 
  That Conscience, which to all their crimes was mute,
  Now calls aloud, and cries to persecute: 
  No rigour of the laws to be released,
  And much the less, because it was their Lord’s request: 
  They thought it great their Sovereign to control, 1220
  And named their pride, nobility of soul.

    ’Tis true, the Pigeons, and their prince elect,
  Were short of power, their purpose to effect: 
  But with their quills did all the hurt they could,
  And cuff’d the tender Chickens from their food: 
  And much the Buzzard in their cause did stir,
  Though naming not the patron, to infer,
  With all respect, he was a gross idolater.