Complete ART

0 F

POETRY

By CHARLES GILDON, Gent.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

Printed for CHARLES RIVINGTON, at the
Bible and Crown in St. Paul's Churck-7 ard, 1,728.

T

A B B O T.
* E pampera Abbot too, cries, he's a Saint

With daily Pray’rs and nightly Watchings faint:
His Aorid Looks, his vain Pretence deny,
And his steek 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. Anona

ABBY.
Look with a curious Eye all Europe round,
And thew one rich, one healthy Spot of Ground,
But there some Abby is, or else 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.

ibid.
ABSENCE.
Abrenice to a Lover is sure Death,
His Soul is in her, and so goes away.
Vol. IL

B

Absence

20:274

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 seems 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 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 hafte to bless me ; Think with what eager Hopes, what Rage I burn, For ev'ry tedious Minare how I mourn: Think how I call the 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 ! so bleft, so blest am I, With sacred 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, langiiish in the Shade, and die.
Oh! I were loft in endless Night,
If her bright Presence brought not Light ;
Then I revive, bleft as before :

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