In plain words
You must be ready to give even your life to God. Such a man, who had given up all attachment, was this Bali Cakravarti. He had everything. He lacked nothing. In comfort, in wealth, in pleasures and riches there was no want of any kind. To have everything and still come to tyāga is great good fortune. Tyāga does not come to the rich. Such people turn into still greater misers. They become grasping. But Bali Cakravarti became a man of tyāga. It is for such tyāga that so great a fame has come.
Even in good, bad keeps being born. Their whole line was a line of rākṣasas. Even in the line of rākṣasas supreme devotees, Prahlāda and Bali Cakravarti, were born. Even in mud lovely, lovely sacred lotuses keep being born. In water itself both good and bad arise. The lotuses that draw a man arise there. The leeches that suck a man dry also arise in that very water. So among men too there are the pure and the impure. The pure must become purer still, the best of the best. The impure must enter into purity. This is the ideal life. All the histories of the great have shown forth an ideal. We must take as our ideal the way they lived. So too, there is no use in our merely holding festivals of some sort, saying this is the day Bali Cakravarti gave darśan, the day Vāmana took His Avatāra. The sacred qualities of Vāmana and the tyāga of the sacred Bali Cakravarti must arise in us. Only when they arise in that way will close ties of kinship come about between that ruler and his people. Such rulers and such people were in the world in those days. But the outlook of today's man is that people take good for bad and bad for good. A little story.
One day a mahārāja resolved to take an oil bath. In those days the queen herself used to do all the mahārāja's work. Today, when the rich all sit at table, the cooks must come and serve. The wife does not touch it. But in those days the wife herself had to serve her husband. Even though she was a queen, she herself had to wait on the king. That day the queen took a little oil into her hand and was rubbing the mahārāja's head so that he might take his oil bath. As she was oiling his head, she saw somewhere on it two white hairs. Her sorrow grew great. "The king is growing old. Life is shrinking day by day. Moment by moment this measure of the body is shrinking," she thought, and as she oiled his head she was wiping her tears. All round this mahārāja's house there were mirrors, as in the palaces of those days, and the king, having his head oiled, saw in the mirror that she was wiping her tears.