A self there is, as fond of every vice,
While every virtue wounds it to the heart:
Humility degrades it, Justice robs,
Bless’d Bounty beggars it, fair Truth betrays,
And godlike Magnanimity destroys.
This self, when rival to the former, scorn; 880
When not in competition, kindly treat,
Defend it, feed it:—but when Virtue bids,
Toss it, or to the fowls, or to the flames.
And why? ’Tis love of pleasure bids thee bleed;