made a propension and inclination in the principal and reasonable part.
Now those who withhold their assent and doubt of all things take
not away this, but make use of the appetition or instinct naturally
conducting every man to that which seems convenient for him. What, then,
is the only thing that they shun? That in which is bred falsehood and
deceit,--that is, opining, and haste in giving consent,--which is a
yielding through weakness to that which appears, and has not any
true utility. For action stands in need of two things, to wit, the
apprehension or imagination of what is agreeable to Nature, and the
instinct or appetition driving to that which is so imagined; of which,
neither the one nor the other is repugnant to the retention of assent.
For reason withdraws us from opinion, and not from appetition or
imagination. When, therefore, that which is delectable seems to us to be
proper for us, there is no need of opinion to move and carry us to it,
but appetition immediately exerts itself, which is nothing else but the
motion and inclination of the soul.

It is their own axiom, that a man must only have sense and be flesh and
blood and pleasure will appear to be good. Wherefore also it will seem
good to him who withholds his assent. For he also participates of sense,
and is made of flesh and blood, and as soon as he has conceived an
imagination of good, desires it and does all things that it may not
escape from him; but as much as possibly he can, he will keep himself
with that which is agreeable to his nature, being drawn by natural and
not by geometrical constraints. For these goodly, gentle, and tickling
motions of the flesh are, without any teacher, attractive enough of
themselves--even as these men forget not to say--to draw even him who
will not in the least acknowledge and confess that he is softened and
rendered pliable by them. "But how comes it to pass," perhaps you will
say, "that he who is thus doubtful and withholds his assent hastens not
away to the mountain, instead of going to the bath? Or that, rising
up to go forth into the market-place, he runs not his head against the
wall, but takes his way directly to the door?" Do you ask this, who
hold all the senses to be infallible, and the apprehensions of the
imagination certain and true? It is because the bath appears to him not
a mountain, but a bath; and the door seems not a wall, but a door;
and the same is to be said of every other thing. For the doct