The Dispensary: A Poem. In Six Canto's

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printed: and sold by John Nutt, 1706 - 120 pages
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Page 32 - You'll hardly e'er convince a fool, he's so: He hates realities, and hugs the cheat, And still the only pleasure's the deceit.
Page 72 - Tis I that give, so mighty is my power, Faith to the Jew, complexion to the Moor. I am the wretch's wish, the rook's pretence, The sluggard's ease, the coxcomb's providence. Sir Scrape-quill, once a...
Page 2 - There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, And sumptuous arches bear its oval height ; A golden globe, plac'd high with artful skill, Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill...
Page 9 - Each faculty in blandi(hment they lull, Afpiring to be venerably dull ; No learn'd debates moleft their downy trance, Or difcompofe their pompous ignorance; But undifturb'd, they loiter life away, •So wither green, and bloflbm in decay. Deep funk in down, they, by my gentle care, Avoid th' inclemencies of morning air, And leave to tatter'd crape the drudgery of pray'r.
Page 47 - Reft, health, and eafe, for nothing but a. name. Then let us, to the field before we move, N Know if the Gods our enterprife approve. Suppofe th...
Page 33 - He hates realities, and hugs the cheat, And still the only pleasure's the deceit. So meteors flatter with a dazzling dye, Which no existence has, but in the eye. As distant prospects please us, but when near We find but desert rocks and fleeting air; From stratagem to stratagem we run, And he knows most, who latest is undone.
Page 58 - Nought can their odour, like a Jakes, reftore. When for advice the vulgar throng, he's found With lumber of vile books befieg'd around. The gazing...
Page xiii - I have not done it enough : but he that will give himself the trouble of examining, will find I have copied him in nothing but in two or three lines in the complaint of Molesse, Canto II.
Page 3 - Why bilious juice a golden light puts on, And floods of chyle in silver currents run; How the dim speck of entity began To extend its recent form, and stretch to man...
Page 116 - How your sad sick'ning art now hangs her head > And, once a science, is become a trade. Her sons ne'er rifle her mysterious store, But study nature less, and lucre more. Not so, when Rome to th' Epidaurian rais'd A temple, where devoted incense blaz'd.

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