Exerts himself to cure them quickly all the more.
And he’ll ne’er take his flight towards heaven’s eternal King,
Who holds at heart the thought that he’s a perfect thing.
No worse disease exists, to taint the human mind,
Than self-conceit, that paints its owner gold refined.65
How many bitter tears has not the vain to shed,
Ere arrogance can be expelled, and pride be dead!
The malady of Satan,—self-conceit:—“I’m best,”[350]
Exists in germ in every panting human breast.
These fancy they have mortified themselves throughout.