Who comes and saith: 'A Tyrant, lo, am I!'
And, 'I am Antichrist!' what man will swear?
The crafty rogue, hiding his poisonous ware,
Sells you what slays your soul, for sanctity.
Cheats, brigands, prostitutes, and all that fry,
Not having fashioned so devout a snare,
Appear worse sinners than perhaps they are;
For where the craft's small, small's the villainy;
You're on your guard. The meek Samaritan
Makes way before those guileful Pharisees,
Though God assigned to him the higher place.
Not words nor wonders prove a virtuous man,
But deeds and acts. How many deities
Hath this false standard given the human race!



XXXV.

_SOPHISTS._

_Nessun ti verrà a dire._


'Behold, I am a Sophist!' no man saith.
But the true sons of perfidy refined
Forge theologic lies the soul to blind,
Calling themselves evangels of the faith.