No moralists then, righteous to excess,
Wou'd show fair Virtue in so black a dress,
That they, like boys, who some feign'd spright array,
First from the spectre fly themselves away:
No preachers in the terrible delight,
But chuse to win by reason, not affright;
Not conjurers like, in fire and brimstone dwell,
And draw each moving argument from hell.