Dress up lies to look like truths, mask folly in the garb of reason:
Your soul acts on theirs, sure, when the people clamor,
Hold their peace, now fight now fondle,—earwigged through the brains.'
Possibly! but still the operation 's mundane,
Grosser than a taste demands which—craving manna—kecks at peason—
Power o'er men by wants material: why should one deign
Rule by sordid hopes and fears—a grunt for all one's pains?
"No, if men must praise me, let them praise to purpose!
Would we move the world, not earth but heaven must be our fulcrum—pou sto!
Thus I seek to move it: Master, why intérpose—