(12) Sometimes I menace them with poverty, Sometimes I blind their eyes with tresses and moles." In this prison the food of true faith is scarce, In spite of prayers and fasts and endless pains, Alas ! we are perishing by his insolence. The dog is one, yet he enters a thousand forms; Whatever makes you shiver, know he is in it, When he finds no form at hand, he enters your thoughts, From your thoughts proceeds destruction, Sometimes thoughts of pleasure, sometimes of business, Sometimes thoughts of science, sometimes of house and home.

(23) But the sorcerer sitteth in the way, and will make many so blind that they will not see the door; and then they return home and say, There is no door at all, it is a mere fiction. And so they go thither no more.