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A Riftotle.

Xenophon. Plutarch. Lucian. Longinus. Tully. Quintilian. Petronius. Horace. Lilius Giraldus. Scaliger. Voflius. Boslu. Rapin. *D'acier. St Evremond. Vavafos. Sir Philip Sidney. Dryden. Sir William Temple. Tatler. Spectator. Lord Roscomon. Duke of Bucks. Dennis.

Sophocles. Euripides. Menander. Aristophanes. Theocritus, Virgil. Lucan. Plautus. Terence. Corneille. Racine. Boileau. Taflo. Petrarch. Chaucer. Spencer. Shakespear. Fletcher. B. Johnson. Milton. Cowley. Wycherley. Otway. Waller, Lee, Addison. Congreve. Garth. Blackmore. Rowe, Philips, os



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









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 Carcafs 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 Guft,
While poinant Sauces keep alive his Luft.
Luft, Avarice and Sloth, Revenge and Pride,
Are the bleft Virtues of this Saintlike Guide.

Look with a curious Eye all Europe round,
And fhew one rich, one healthy Spot of Ground,
But there fome Abby is, or elfe has been,
And there in Ruins their wife Choice is feen..


The Front of Heaven fome fpecious Tale will tell,
But the Back-Gate ftill opens into Hell,


Abfence to a Lover is fure Death,

His Soul is in her, and fo goes away.





Abfence 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 Abfence 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.
When thy lov'd Sight fhall blefs 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 hafte to blefs 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 Ulyf
Fly fwift, ye Hours, you meafure Time for me in
'Till you bring back Leonidas again :
Be fwifter 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, fo bleft am I, With facred Rapture and immortal Joy!

But, abfent, 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 Prefence brought not Light;
Then I revive, bleft as before :

The Gods themselves cannot be more! Roch

For Paffion by long Abfence does improve,

And makes that Rapture which before was Love. Step.

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