Printed for CHARLES RIVINGTON, at the
Bible and Crown in St. Paul's Cynrck-7 ard, 1718.

مي [1]

Τ Η Ε

COMPLETE ART

OF

POETRY.

A B BO T.
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 seek Carcass gives his Boasts 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.
Luft, Avarice and Sloth, Revenge and Pride,
Are the blest Virtues of this Saintlike Guide. Anon.

A B B Y.
Look with a curious Eye all Europe round,
And thew 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

ibida
ABS EN C E.
Absence to a Lover is sure Death,
His Soul is in her, and so goes away.
VOL. IL

В.

Absence

Absence is Hell, whence all true Joys are driven;
For in her Presence 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 whispring Pines made Vows for thy Return.

(Dryd. Virg. 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 Ulys: Fly swift, ye Hours, you measure Time for me in 'Till you bring back Leonidas again :

(vain, Be Swifter now, and to redeem that Wrong, When he and I are met, be twice as long.

(Dryd. Mar. A-la-mode. While in divine Panthea's charming Eyes I view the naked Boy that basking lies I grow a God ! fo bleft, so blest am I, With sacred Rapture and immortal Joy !

But, absent, if she fines no more,
And hides the Suns that I adore,
Strait, like a Wretch despairing, I
Sigh, langitidh in the Shade, and die.
Oh ! I were lost in endlefs Night,
If her bright Presence frought not Light ;
Then I revive, bleft as before :

The Gods themselves cannot be more!
For Passion by long Absence does improve,
And makes that Rapture which before was Love. Step.

ADONIS.

Roch.