And soul responds quick: “Season, sure, to bedight.”
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;