Beside a fire a hideous idol he did make,30
And proclamation ran: “Whoever ’d save his soul,
This idol worships; or in fire he’s burnt to coal.”[125]
Thus having made his hate an idol to himself,
A second idol straightway he invents, this elf.
The mother of all idols is our fleshly pride.
They’re dragons; this, the egg of cockatrice’s bride.
The flesh is flint and steel; our pride is but its spark.
That pride pervades the flesh as fecundation’s mark.
Can moisture quench the latent spark in flint and steel?