Half of your book is to an index grown; You give your book contents, your readers none. _On a Flower painted by_ VARELST. BY MR. PRIOR. When famed Varelst this little wonder drew, Flora vouchsafed the growing work to view; Finding the painter’s science at a stand, The goddess snatched the pencil from his hand, And, finishing the piece, she smiling said, Behold one work of mine, which ne’er shall fade. _An Epitaph on Little Stephen, a noted Fiddler in the County of Suffolk._ Stephen and Time Are now both even; Stephen beat Time, Now Time beats Stephen. _On Giles and Joan._ Who says that Giles and Joan at discord be? The observing neighbours no such mood can see; Indeed, poor Giles repents he married ever, But that his Joan doth too: and Giles would never, By his free will, be in Joan’s company; No more would Joan he should: Giles riseth early, And having got him out of doors is glad; The like is Joan: but turning home is sad; And so is Joan: oft-times when Giles doth find Harsh sights at home, Giles wishes he were blind; All this doth Joan; or, that his long-earned life Were quite out-spun; the like wish hath his wife: In all affections she concurreth still; If now with man and wife to will and nill The self same things, a note of concord be, I know no couple better can agree. _To a Sempstress._ Oh, what bosom but must yield, When, like Pallas, you advance, With a thimble for your shield, And a needle for your lance! Fairest of the stitching train, Ease my passion by your art; And in pity to my pain, Mend the hole that’s in my heart. _On a Certain Poet._ Thy verses are eternal, O my friend! For he who reads them, reads them to no end. _A Distich, written under the sign of the King’s Head and Bell in Dublin, at the host’s request._ BY DEAN SWIFT. May the king live long; Dong, ding, ding, dong. _On seeing a Miser at Vauxhall Gardens._ Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, To calm the tyrant, and relieve the opprest: But Vauxhall’s concert’s more attracting power Unlocked Sir Richard’s pocket at threescore: Oh! strange effect of music’s matchless force, To attract a shilling from a miser’s purse! _To a Lady who had very bad teeth._ Ovid, who bids the ladies laugh, Spoke only to the young and fair; For thee his counsel were not safe, Who of sound teeth have scarce a pair. If thou the glass or me believe, Shun mirth, as foplings do the wind; At Cibber’s face affect to grieve, And let thy eyes alone be kind. If thou art wise see dismal plays, And to sad stories lend thy ear; With the afflicted spend thy days, And laugh not above once a year. _On an old Maid’s Marriage._ Celia, a coquet in her prime, The vainest, ficklest thing alive; Behold the strange effects of time! Marries and doats at forty-five.