It’s pride that bends the mind to self-disdain;
Ambition’s the green well-spring of discontent.
And hearts that love themselves delight in pain
And revel in the fond embellishment
Of every fluke and flaw that makes one less
Than the very god he jealously aspires
To make himself; and yet he’ll not confess
To such naked offense, but like all liars
Dissembles cleverly to make his sin
Appear his crown of thorns, himself the poor
And hapless victim, who, adread within,
Yet feeds the beast that crouches at the door:
And when it springs, he feigns dismay and fear
While casting backward glances at the mirror.