_To a young Gentleman who loved to drive hard with a sorry pair of Horses._ BY MR. PRIOR. Thy nags, the leanest things alive, So very hard thou lov’st to drive, I heard thy anxious coachman say It cost thee more in whips than hay. _Solid Worth in a Wife._ When Loveless married Lady Jenny, Whose beauty was the ready penny; I chose her, said he, like old plate, Not for the fashion, but the weight. _Epitaph on a Miser._ Reader, beware immoderate love of pelf: Here lies the worst of thieves, who robbed himself. _On a crooked Woman._ Nature in pity has denied you shape, Else how should mortals Flavia’s chain escape? Your radiant aspect, and your rosy bloom, Without this form would bring a general doom: At once our ruin and relief we see, At sight are captives, and at sight are free. _Phillis’s Age._ How old may Phillis be, you ask, Whose beauty thus all hearts engages? To answer is no easy task; For she really has two ages. Stiff in brocade, and pinched in stays, Her patches, paint, and jewels on; All day let Envy view her face, And Phillis is but twenty-one. Paint, patches, jewels, laid aside, At night astronomers agree, The evening has the day belied. And Phillis is full forty-three. _On Timothy Mum, a Tapster._ Here Tim the tapster lies, who drew good beer, But now, drawn to his end, he draws no more; Yes, still he draws from every friend a tear, Water he draws, who drew good beer before. _On seeing an engraved Portrait of the late Dr. Cheyne ill done._ Nature and Vandergutch in this agree, Unfinished she has left him, so has he. _On the death of Mary, Countess of Pembroke._ Underneath this sable hearse Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney’s sister, Pembroke’s mother: Death, ere thou hast killed another, Fair, and learned, good as she, Time shall throw his dart at thee. _To a bad Fiddler._ Old Orpheus played so well he moved old Nick, Whilst thou mov’st nothing but thy fiddle-stick. _Written on a Glass with the Earl of Chesterfield’s diamond pencil._ Accept a miracle instead of wit; See two dull lines by Stanhope’s pencil writ. _The real Affliction._ Doris, a widow, past her prime, Her spouse long dead, her wailing doubles; Her real griefs increase by time, And what abates, improves her troubles. Those pangs her prudent hopes suppressed, Impatient now she cannot smother: How should the helpless woman rest? One’s gone―nor can she get another. _To an old Woman who used Paint._ Leave off thy paint, perfumes, and youthful dress, And nature’s failing honestly confess; Double we see those faults which art would mend, Plain downright ugliness would less offend. _To Flirtilla._