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No; though my life, and what is dearer far, My Portia's love, depended on the words, I would not, and I durst not utter them.

I see it well: thou art ensnared and blinded By their enchantments. Demoniac power Will drag thee to thy ruin. Cast it off; Defy it. Say thou wilt forbear all intercourse With this detested sect. Art thou a madman?

If I am mad, that which possesses me Outvalues all philosophers e'er taught, Or poets e'er imagined.—Listen to me. Call ye these Christians vile, because they suffer All nature shrinks from, rather than deny What seems to them the truth? Call ye them sorcerers, Because their words impart such high conceptions Of power creative and parental love, In one great Being join'd, as makes the heart Bound with ennobling thoughts? Call ye them curst Who daily live in steady strong assurance Of endless blessedness? O, listen to me!