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 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.