Printed for CHARLES RIVINGTON, at the
Bible and Crown in St. Paul's Church-1ard, 1718.

Gen.

=

[]

THE

COMPLETE ART

OF

POETRY.

T

ABBOT.

HE pamper'd Abbot too, cries, he's a Saint
With daily Pray'rs and nightly Watchings faint:

His florid Looks, his vain Pretence deny,
And his freek Carcass gives his Boafts the Lye :
Soft Beds of Down his wanton Limbs infold,
In Gems he drinks, and eats on burnish'd Gold.
Luxurious Food devours with Priestly Gust,
While poinant Sauces keep alive his Luft.
Lust, Avarice and Sloth, Revenge and Pride,
Are the blest Virtues of this Saintlike Guide.

ABBY.

Anon

Look with a curious Eye all Europe round,
And shew one rich, one healthy Spot of Ground,
But there fome Abby is, or else has been,

And there in Ruins their wife Choice is feen.

The Front of Heaven some specious Tale will tell,

But the Back-Gate still opens into Hell.

ABSENCE.

Absence to a Lover is sure Death,

His Soul is in her, and so goes away.

VOL. II.

B

ibid

!

Abfence

400274

Absence is Hell, whence all true Joys are driven;
For in her Prefence only is his Heaven.

Love reckons Hours for Months, and Days for Years, And ev'ry little Absence is an Age. Dryd. Amphit. The tedious Hours move heavily away,

And each long Minute feems a lazy Day. Ot. Cai. Mar.
For thee the bubling Springs appear'd to mourn,
And whisp'ring Pines made Vows for thy Return.
(Dryd. Virg.

T

When thy lov'd Sight shall bless my Eyes again, Then will I own I ought not to complain, Since that sweet Hour is worth whole Years of Pain. (Rowe's Tamerl.

I charge thee, loiter not, but haste to bless me; Think with what eager Hopes, what Rage I burn, For ev'ry tedious Minute how I mourn: Think how I call thee cruel for thy Stay, And break my Heart with Grief for thy unkind Delay. (Rowe's Ulyff.

Fly swift, ye Hours, you measure Time for me in

'Till you bring back Leonidas again :
Be swifter now, and to redeem that Wrong,
When he and I are met, be twice as long.

(vain,

(Dryd. Mar. A-la-mode.

While in divine Panthea's Charming Eyes
I view the naked Boy that basking lies,
I grow a God! so blest, so blest am I,
With facred Rapture and immortal Joy !

But, absent, if she shines no more,
And hides the Suns that I adore,
Strait, like a Wretch defpairing, I
Sigh, languish in the Shade, and die.
Oh! I were loft in endless Night,
If her bright Presence brought not Light ;
Then I revive, blest as before :

The Gods themselves cannot be more! Roch.

For Paffion by long Absence does improve,

And makes that Rapture which before was Love. Step.