Classic Poem

Why should you such Devotion still
To that false Idol Honour shew!
In this you prove Love's Infidel
And worship your most deadly Foe.

Like faithless Indians thus you bow
To a grim Pow'r that's serv'd with Fear.
And, as it does your Torment grow,
Become the more its Worshipper.

Mistaken Saint! give me the Pow'r
The Errors of thy Zeal to mend;
Thy proud Tormentor serve no more,
But own a God will prove a Friend.

No longer let the strict Regards
Of jealous Honour rule thy Soul;
Thy nice Distrust thy Cure retards,
And does more wholesom Thoughts controul.

Love's Penitents should lose no Time,
To-morrow still you simply say;
Procrastination is a Crime,
Begin the Convert then to Day.