THE LONDON PRODIGAL, Or the Unfortunate Spendthrift.
OFt have I wonder'd at the various state,
The strange
Moeanders and the turns of Fate,
All humane actions topsie turvy hurl'd;
Let's find some
Bedlem for the frantick World.
Some curse their stars, and think the Gods unjust;
Ye Heavens! and will ye thus reward our trust?
Our Virtue's great, but our requital small;
Let's Act for something, or not Act at all!
Yet I have seen some Philosophick Souls,
Whom so supine a piety controuls;
That 'midst their Poverty will preach Content,
As Quaking Brethren do,
Repent, repent.
The Young Gallant who huffs it up and down,
The Spendthrift, son of some penurious Clown;
Thinking his Father hath good store of pelf,
Ah Blessed Jesus take him to thy self!
'Tis time, grown old in grace, from hence to flee;
Heaven's fit for him, and his Estate for me:
Grant this request, and I this vow will make,
To spend it bravely for my Fathers sake.
The Miser dead, he stands no more in aw;
Who dares affront? God damme, Sir, I'll draw.
Then combs and sets his flaxen Wig with art,
To make some
Whetstones Lady break her heart;
Feasts nobly, sets some Crowns upon the score,
Then to the Play-house, Tavern, or a Whore:
Ere evening comes perhaps gets soundly drunk,
And spends an hour in pastime with a Punk;
A dainty Girl as ere did catch a fall,
She clings as close as Ivy to the wall.
But now resolv'd to purchase great applause,
And show his valour in a womans cause,
He builds a sconce, the Bawd, the Whore he kicks,
Then runs;
Pox take you, Sir, are these your tricks?
Proud of his late success, he doth defie
All future dangers, and as stout as
Guy,
Breaks through the Watch, and then more valiant grows;
The windows feel his fury as he goes;
Clash goes the Glass; the people wake, and fear
Some Regiment of Cut-throat Papists near.
Thus their fantastick thoughts themselves beguile,
When 'tis some drunken
Hector all the while.
But now i'th' midst of his triumphant Reign,
His greatest Pleasure proves his greatest Pain;
He finds his Stock diminish, and beside
Percieves himself compleatly Frenchify'd.
Such pocky luck does to the Brave befall;
Ah rotten Whores! Hells curse light on you all!
Now doth himself with purging med'cines drench,
And thinks his
Doctor dearer than his
Wench.
The Purge, the Syringe, and the Flux endur'd;
His pocket drein'd, himself three quarters cur'd;
Ventures abroad sometimes, but yet by stealth;
His
Purse b'ing now grown poorer than his
health:
He finds his wants no longer can be hid,
Nor can he huff, nor swagger as he did.
His
Taylor duns, his credits almost lost,
His
Tavern-scores do haunt him like a
Ghost.
He sees his fault, and knows not what to think,
At last resolves to spunge on Gamesters drink;
To pimp, to shark for all that ere he gets;
Or fright some Cully from their Coyn and Wits.
This further Curse these Prodigals attends,
Their Lives are oft less wretched than their Ends;
Their thoughts, their actions sacrific'd to vice,
To swearing, drinking, huffing, whores and dice.
They headlong to their certain ruine run;
The Gallows seems to call them, and they come.
WITH ALLOWANCE.
LONDON, Printed by J.W. for R.C. over against the Globe in Little Brittain, 1673.