But now, to speak of the thing itself in its own proper nature,
what is it but a blast of another man's mouth, as soon past as
spoken? He who setteth his delight on it, feedeth himself but with
wind; be he never so full, he hath little substance therein. And
many times shall he much deceive himself. For he shall think that
many praise him who never speak word of him. And they that do, say
yet much less than he thinketh and far more seldom too. For they
spend not all the day, he may be sure, in talking of him alone. And
those who so commend him the most will yet, I daresay, in every
four-and-twenty hours, shut their eyes and forget him once! Besides
this, while one speaketh well of him in one place, another sitteth
and saith as ill of him in another. And finally, some who most
praise him in his presence, behind his back mock him as fast and
loud laugh him to scorn, and sometimes slily to his own face, too.
And yet are there some fools so fed with this foolish fancy of fame
that they rejoice and glory to think how they are continually
praised all about, as though all the world did nothing else, day
nor night, but ever sit and sing _"Sanctus sanctus, sanctus"_ upon
them!
X
And into this pleasant frenzy of much foolish vainglory are there
some men brought sometimes by those whom they themselves do (in a
manner) hire to flatter them.
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