Classic Poem

The Knife return'd, remain in perfect ease,
Nor with vain fears afflict thyself, or teaze.
What sign or omen ever can portend
To alienate the love I bear my friend;
Tho' sharpest weapons were like troops combin'd
To form a Phalanx round my steady mind,
Affection would resist and foil their pow'r,
Nor quit her standard to the latest hour.
Hence, Superstition! hide thy daring head,
By weak distrust, and human folly bred;
Subdu'd by sense, the victor of thy fate,
In chains thou shalt appear to grace her state.