Man, it is true, can, by combination, surmount all his real enemies, and become master of the whole animal creation: but does he not immediately raise up to himself imaginary enemies, the demons of his fancy, who haunt him with superstitious terrors, and blast every enjoyment of life?
His pleasure, as he imagines, becomes, in their eyes, a crime: his food and repose give them umbrage and offence: his very sleep and dreams furnish new materials to anxious fear: and even death, his refuge from every other ill, presents only the dread of endless and innumerable woes.

Nor does the wolf molest more the timid flock, than superstition does the anxious breast of wretched mortals.
Besides, consider, DEMEA: This very society, by which we surmount those wild beasts, our natural enemies; what new enemies does it not raise to us?
What woe and misery does it not occasion?
Man is the greatest enemy of man.

Oppression, injustice, contempt, contumely, violence, sedition, war, calumny, treachery, fraud; by these they mutually torment each other; and they would soon dissolve that society which they had formed, were it not for the dread of still greater ills, which must attend their separation.
But though these external insults, said DEMEA, from animals, from men, from all the elements, which assault us, form a frightful catalogue of woes, they are nothing in comparison of those which arise within ourselves, from the distempered condition of our mind and body.

How many lie under the lingering torment of diseases?
Hear the pathetic enumeration of the great poet.
Intestine stone and ulcer, colic-pangs, Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy, And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy, Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence.
Dire was the tossing, deep the groans: despair Tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch.
And over them triumphant death his dart Shook: but delay'd to strike, though oft invok'd With vows, as their chief good and final hope.
The disorders of the mind, continued DEMEA, though more secret, are not perhaps less dismal and vexatious.

Remorse, shame, anguish, rage, disappointment, anxiety, fear, dejection, despair; who has ever passed through life without cruel inroads from these tormentors?
How many have scarcely ever felt any better sensations?
Labour and poverty, so abhorred by every one, are the certain lot of the far greater number; and those few privileged persons, who enjoy ease and opulence, never reach contentment or true felicity.