When body sees crowds, throngs, profess love for it, Control of self loses, in teeth takes the bit, It does not reflect how the thousands and more, Itself like, has sin brought to ruin’s grim shore. The bait of gross flattery is always found sweet. Therewith be not caught. Lurid fire’s ’neath its greet. 315 Its sweetness is present; its flame’s not forecast; Its smoke of destruction will burst forth at last. Say not: “I’ll ne’er listen to flatterer’s tale; They’re sordid, its motives;--like ‘sprat to catch whale.’” A lampoon should thy panegyrist indite Against thee in public, thy rest’s disturbed quite. Thou knowest it was spoken in sheer angry spleen, When he in some wish unsuccessful had been. The barb of it rankles, still, in thy heart’s core, The price paid for flattery, ’tis, makes thee feel sore. 320 Long, long shalt thou feel the deep wound it inflicts. It stimulates pride; all the soul it infects. Man shows not how sweet flattery is to his soul. The instant he’s lampooned, he’s lost self-control. Thus, pill or draught taken to combat disease, A long time, indeed, you’re thence robbed of all ease. And if you eat sweetmeats, their tastes are soon lost. Nor one, nor the other, is worth half the cost. Duration they have not; effects they produce. By contraries, contraries all we deduce. 325 As hidden effect of a diet of sweets, By long incubation, boils break out, or gleets. The flesh, with praise pampered, a Pharaoh becomes. The flesh, mortified, due submission assumes. A servant to all be; princely power be forgot. Submit to cuffs, ball-like; like bat, batter not. So soon, otherwise, as thee fortune forsakes, Thy flatterers will turn. ’Tis greed only, them makes. The throngs of gross flatterers, who sang loud thy praise. Will shake their heads, shout out: “Poor de’il! What a craze!” 330 On seeing thee, then, as thou wanderest about, They cry: “Cursed hobgoblin! From grave he’s come out!” Like beardless, vain boy they’ve addressed as “My Lord,” To work on his vanity, fair fame defraud, In vice when he’s nurtured, his beard thickly grown, E’en Satan would blush a pact with him to own. ’Tis men Satan seeks out, to work them mischief. Thee he’ll never seek; worse than him, thou, a thief. So long as thou’rt man, Satan follows thy track. He tempts thee to drain manhood’s lees, still, and wrack. 335 When thou’rt become devil, just like to himself, He flees thee in fright; leaves thee quite to thyself. All they who before refuge took in thy power, With horror fly from thee, in this thy fallen hour.