No more with Syllogisms try
To prove blind Love a Deity:
Love has no Pow'r to win the Field,
But when we tamely please to yield.
And those tremendous Darts and Bow,
Which flatt'ring Poets did bestow,
Are not for Service, but for Show.
Mere JargoNof the chiming Tribe,
Who first invent, and then describe.
That mighty Pow'r, by which he rules;
Was feign'd by superstitious Fools,
Who wanted Reason's clearer Day,
To chase their Passions Clouds away:
And had not Sense to find the Cheat,
For Love, and Reason, seldom meet.

So Witches exercise their Will,
And tim'rous passive Creatures kill;
But never found so strong a Charm,
That could undaunted Spirits harm.

In vain you strive! to make me fear
Predictions, which will ne'er appear,
On native Strength I still rely,
And undisturb'd with Love will die.
For know, I can no more believe
My quiet Breast shall Love receive;
That he from Heart, to Heart does stalk,
Than you can fancy Ghosts do walk.

Ah! let not free-born Souls give way
To such an arbitrary Sway:
Nor Idolize one Passion's Name,
When all the Rest have equal Claim.
Fear might as well a Godship have, as this;
And Hate, demand an Apotheosis.