Thos. jolley Esqr. F.S.A.    

THE YOUNG GALLANTS WHIRLIGIG: OR YOUTHS' REEKS. Demonstrating the inordinate affections, absurd actions, and profuse expenses, of unbridled and affectated Youth: With their extravagant courses, and preposterous progressions, and aversions. Together with The too often dear bought experience, and the rare, or too late regression and reclamation of most of them from their habitual ill customs, and unqualified manners.  
Vsitatum peccatum, peccatum non videtur.  
Compiled and written by F.L.  
Nemo laeditur nisi àseipso. Ergo: 
jam vitulos hortare, viamque insiste domandi,  
Dumfaciles animi juvenum; dum mobilis aetas.  Virg.  
LONDON, Printed by M.F. for Robert Bostocke, at the sign of the King's head in Paul's Churchyard 1629.   

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, Sir JULIUS CAESAR Knight, Master of the Rolls, and one of his Ma.tie most Honourable Privy Counsel.  
RIGHT HONOURABLE:  
Observing the by-paths of this prodigal generation, and having contracted myself within a smaller, and narrower compass, than the looseness of too many do admit, I thought it not amiss (seeing examples take no impression in the lives of lascivious youths) to venture upon a check to their follies, by way of precept, in some brief impolish Numbers; suiting with the common enormities of these times. And in regard that I once belonged to the Innes-of-Court, and have a long time aswell by general reports, as my own particular knowledge) been an eye witness of your Loyalty in your Place, Piety in your Family, Clemency toward poor Clients, Charity to the Needy, and Courtesy to All: I have presumed (under your Honour's favour) to present you with a piece of an hour's recreation, licenc'd by good Authority. I am no usual Poetizer, but to bar Idleness have employed that little talon the Muses have conferred upon me, in this little Tract. If it shall please your Honour but to warm it under your Noble wings, no doubt but it will grow bigger and better, and encourage me to write a more large & solid Labour. Accept it then, Right Honourable, and peruse it but with the tithe of that respect which my duty and devotion presents it, and none shall be more truly grateful to your so much honoured Gravity, than  
Your Honour's most humbly obliged FRA: LENTON.   

To three sorts of Readers.  
YOu homebred Dotards wont to relate  
The tedious stories of a quondam State,  
Tie up your tongues, and now with admiration,  
Behold the times preposterous alteration:  
If your experience will find out the truth  
Like Aeson your old age must turn to youth.  
You guilded Snowballs, and aspiring Sprights,  
That nought discern but sensual delights,  
That throw away your days before you can  
Truly deserve the Epithet of Man:  
Observe these Numbers, and impolish Lays,  
Which though they cannot merit any Bays,  
May (if you please) as in a lookingglass,  
Show you the follies of a golden Ass.  
I do not Satyrize; but still desire  
In loving zeal, and true fraternal fire,  
T'inform your judgements by some men's decay,  
And by their wand'ring point you perfect way.  
Precepts are good, but if you them refuse,  
Your own example may make good my Muse.  
You tender Blades, not ripened by the Times,  
That know, nor Virtue, nor the modern Crimes,  
Whose understandings cannot apprehend  
How far your Will, your Reason doth extend:  
Whose softer minds, and young progressions,  
Are apt for any fair impressions:  
Behold foul Vice clad in a gorgeous ray,  
And pined Virtue patched in poorest grey:  
Take heed in time, be happy if you can;  
See, and forsake by this unhappy Man.  
But if according to your youthful days,  
You will be mad, and memorate your praise  
By your loose Actions; spinning out your thread  
In vanity, until your fatal bed  
Surprise you unawares; and take you hence  
Before your souls have thought of penitence:  
Know, when your Ignorance hath had full scope,  
You'll curse yourselves if ere your eyes be open,  
And think too late, of what I find too true,  
As more have done, as well as I, or you.   

A Fiction by way of Argument on this Book.  
POndering the paths of this polluted age,  
And viewing every Scene upon the Stage  
Of this vile orb; me thought I did behold  
A giddy spirit in an Isle of Gold;  
His head me thought was like a Windmill, big,  
In which ten thousand thoughts run Whirligig,  
Enclosed he was (not by delusive dreams)  
With real luftre of Pactola's streams;  
In which he proudly sails with glorious decks,  
Until the frigide Zone his passage checks  
By hard congealed Rocks, by which he split  
His goodly Bulk; shipwrackt himself, and it.  
But Neptune tendering his unhappy gore,  
Commands the waves to cast him on the shore,  
Where when a while in mind he had forecast  
His fin against the gods by times ill passed,  
jove sent his messenger to tell him yet,  
Pallas had promised wisdom, to his wit;  
This raised his spirits, and 'twixt grief▪ and zeal,  
By bright Apollo's aid, rings youth a Peal.   

THE WHIRLIGIG.  
Leaving the learned Axioms of old,  
Which grave Philosophers have wisely told,  
And left behind them in a moral book,  
For childish youth and crooked age to look;  
I do intend to explicate some Crimes,  
Now perpetrated in these modern times,  
Which differ from the olderne days as far,  
As is the Arctic from th' Antartique Star.  
And thou Calliope thou noble Muse,  
Into my brains thy Coelique power infuse,  
That I may plainly point out my intent,  
For youth to know, and knowing to prevent;  
And though some Critics may suppose me vain  
To write these Numbers in heroic strain;  
They being used at sad Obsequies,  
By weeping lines in doleful Elegies:  
To satisfy their pregnant wits in this,  
I tell them I was one of those remiss  
And giddy Youths which wandered in the air  
Of vain opinion, and excluding Care;  
But when my riper years began to spy  
The end thereof to be but misery;  
And when I saw their fond, and idle crashes  
To be like Meteors only spent in flashes,  
I did retire then from that deep abyss,  
Where horrid Gorgon's do both sting, and hiss,  
And dying from that life, as on my Hearse,  
I wrote these Numbers in heroic Verse.  
But now my Gallants Age I mean to skan,  
Of Infancy, of Childhood, Youth and Man:  
The former two I will but only touch,  
Lest his two following Ages prove too much.  
When at his Mother's tender paps he lay,  
How did she wait upon him every day,  
Tiring herself by tossing in her arms  
His grisly body, keeping it from harms.  
And when his growth hath lent him legs to go,  
Reeling and tottering then both to and fro,  
How often did she watch, and cry, and call;  
Take heed the little Boy there doth not fall:  
Her ardent Care, joined with her constant Eye,  
Did still attend his imbecility.  
Her womb and breasts, in which he did delight,  
He never shall be able to requite.  
His Childhood next (unless he was a fool)  
Required them, to put him unto School:  
Where in process of time he grew to be  
A pretty Scholar; after took degree  
I'th' University, as it was fit,  
Whose Tutor said he had a ready wit,  
And well could argue by old Ramus lays,  
And is the thirteen Fallacies had praise;  
He well could skill upon brave Kickerman,  
And argue sound o'er a Pipe or Can:  
For Scholars sometime to an Alehouse creeping,  
Increase their wits more than in books by peeping▪  
Now all this while he had not his full scope,  
Therefore they did conceive of him great hope,  
His Tutor was the man that kept him in,  
That he ran not into excess of Sinne.  
His literature filled his Parents hearts  
With joy, and comfort, hoping his deserts  
Might purchase credit and a good report,  
And therefore send him to the Inns of Court,  
To study Laws, and never to surcease,  
Till he be made a justice for the peace.  
Now here the ruin of the Youth begins,  
For when the Country cannot find out sins  
To fit his humour, London doth invent  
Millions of vices, that are incident  
To his aspiring mind; for now one year  
Doth elevate him to a higher sphere;  
And makes him think he hath achieved more,  
Then all his father's ancestors before.  
Now thinks his father, here's a goodly Son,  
That hath approached unto Littleton,  
But never looked on't; for in stead of that  
Perhaps he's playing of a game at Cat.  
No, no, good man, he reads not Littleton,  
But Don Quix Zot, or else The Knight o'th' Sun:  
And if you chance unto him put a Case,  
he'll say perhaps you offer him disgrace,  
Or else upon a little further pause,  
Will swear he never could abide the Laws:  
That they are harsh, confused: and to be plain,  
Transcend the limits of his shallow brain.  
Instead of Perkins pedlars French, he says  
He better loves Ben: johnsons' book of Plays,  
But that therein of wit he finds such plenty,  
That he scarce understands a jest of twenty;  
Nay keep him there until the day of doom,  
he'll ne'er read out Natura Brevium;  
But Ouid-like against his father's mind,  
Find pleasant studies of another kind.  
Now twice the Sun his annual course hath flitted  
Since first this goodly Gallant was admitted,  
And now as he approacheth towards the Bar,  
His friends, and parents, very jocund are;  
And to encourage him in the Law's lore,  
He spends much money, and they send him more.  
He ruffles now in Satin, Silk, and Plush,  
And oftentimes soliciteth the bush,  
Embroidered suits, such as his father ne'er  
Knew what they meant; nor he knows how to wear,  
This golden Ass, in this hard Iron age,  
Aspireth now to sit upon the stage,  
Looks round about, then views his glorious self,  
Throws money here and there, swearing hang pelf;  
As if the splendour of his mightiness  
Should never see worse days, or feel distress.  
His quoin expended by alluring hooks,  
His parents him supply to buy him books,  
As he pretends: but stead of Coke Reports,  
he's fencing, dancing, or at other sports.  
Thus he affects himself in these fond ways,  
To gain an outward superficial praise  
Amongst a crew, of sense so much bereft,  
They scarcely know the right hand from the left▪  
His dancing Master he supposeth can  
Make him a right accomplished Gentleman,  
Although his birth abridged it; therefore he  
Now learns the postures of the cap and knee,  
Carrying his body in as curious sort,  
As any Revellor in the Inns of Court,  
That Ladies do behold him with some pleasure  
Capering Corantoes, or some smooth-faced Measure,  
And in the end of his so active dance,  
Some crooked Lady claps her hands by chance,  
Which adds such fuel to his kindled fire,  
That he outstrips proud Phaeton's desire.  
And should great juno but approach so nigh,  
He durst presume to court her Deity.  
Now Venus hath him in her lovely arms,  
And the blind Boy provokes him with his charms,  
Casting from beauteous objects piercing darts,  
Which strike fond Lovers to their fiery hearts;  
Which being once inflamed still doth burn,  
Until their fuel unto ashes turn.  
He now courts every thing he hears or sees,  
With more delight than Lawyers take their fees.  
And when he is far distant from his Fair,  
(Through ardency) he compliments with air,  
Wishing (Chameleon-like) that he might live  
Enclosed within the breath which she doth give:  
All amorous conceits he now commends,  
And for the same his money vainly spends:  
He now scorns Prose, and on his Mistress Name  
Writes an Acrostique▪ or some Anagramme,  
To show his wit: and therefore he hath got  
Some Poetaster for a double pot,  
To lend his aid unto his thin-sculd brain,  
To paint her praises in a lofty strain,  
By some Encomiastique Adulation,  
To which she hath or small, or no relation:  
The Poet undertakes it on condition,  
He spends a quart of Sack for expedition:  
And then he sends it unto Mistress Tit,  
In his own name, though by another's wit.  
Thus when in streets he shall be seen to pass,  
The Poet says, There goes a simple Ass,  
And makes it unto his Associates known,  
He writes good lines, but never writes his own.  
Your theatres he daily doth frequent  
(Except the intermitted time of Lent)  
Treasuring up within his memory  
The amorous toys of every Comedy,  
With deep delight; whereas he doth appear  
Within God's Temple scarcely once a year,  
And that poor once more tedious to his mind,  
Then a years travel, to a toiling Hind.  
Plays are the Nurseries of vice, the Bawd,  
That thorough the senses steals our hearts abroad,  
Tainting our ears with obscene Bawdry,  
Lascivious words, and wanton Ribaulry.  
Charming the Casements of our Souls, the Eyes,  
To gaze upon bewitching vanities,  
Beholding base loose actions, mimic gesture,  
By a poor boy clad in a princely vesture.  
These are the only tempting baits of hell,  
Which draw more youth unto the damned Cell  
Of furious Lust, than all the Devil could do  
Since he obtained his first overthrow.  
Here Idleness, mixed with a wand'ring mind,  
Shall such variety of objects find,  
That ten to one his Will may break the fence  
Of Reason, and embrace Concupiscence.  
Or if this miss, there is another gin  
Close linked unto this taper-house of Sin,  
That will entice you unto Bacchus' feasts,  
Mongst Gallants that have been his ancient guests,  
There to carouse it till the welkin roar,  
Drinking full boles until their bed's the floor:  
Mongst these it is a customary fashion,  
To drink their Mistress health with adoration  
On bended knees, tossing whole flagons up,  
Until their bellies fill again the cup;  
And when for more they throw down pots & yall,  
Their bladders kindness is reciprocal;  
Swear, lie, stab, kill, adore their Mistress eyes,  
More than the Master of th' Olympic skies.  
Thus more like beasts than men, devoid of reason,  
They please their palates, by committing treason  
Against their God, whose Image they deface,  
Obscuring Reason, and abhorring Grace,  
Till Bacchus growing horned, enlarged with fury,  
Takes Atrapos his place without a jury;  
And who can tell whether Elysium  
Receives their fowls, or the infernal tomb?  
What is not apt unto a drunken soul?  
Even any thing that is or base or foul;  
From no absurdity it is exempt,  
As daring any action to attempt.  
The five great crying Sins of this our Land,  
Which daily draweth down God's heavy hand,  
Are incident to this vile watery sin,  
That sticks so fast where it doth once begin.  
To swear, to lie, to kill, to steal, to whore,  
With thousand other petty vices more.  
Mark but the horrid oaths, that men do swear,  
As if from heaven their Maker they would tear,  
Adorning as they think their forged lies  
With hellish Rhetoric of blasphemies;  
Rejecting that which once the Lord did say,  
Let yea be yea, and let your nay be nay:  
Forgetting what a curse, and fatal blame,  
Shall wait on them that crucify his name.  
Lying the next, in which vain youths delight;  
But such ne'er tarried in David's sight:  
For they that do invent and frame such evil,  
Are of their damned father, called the devil;  
And if in time they look not well about,  
Shall keep them company that are shut out.  
The third is homicide, that cruel Crime,  
That seld or never doth at any time  
Outline its punishment; for the Law is good  
And just, that doth require blood for blood:  
But most of all when done on such false ground,  
As in ebriety is often found.  
The fourth is Theft, the drone of Commonwealths  
That never favoureth the goods or healths  
Of Brethren, neighbours, that desire to thrive,  
And by hard labour have increased their hive,  
No sooner got, but strait this crafty drone  
By rapine takes, and spends it as his own.  
The Law condemns, the Gallhouse is prepared,  
Many are trussed for this, but few deterred.  
The fifth is Whoredom, and Adultery,  
Daughters of Drunkenness, and Gluttony▪  
By these and Laziness they are begot,  
As once appeared by the righteous Lot:  
O! would but once that act had ever been,  
Then we had scaped, and Lot had borne that Sin.  
And now my lusty Gallant still resolved  
Into the middle region is involved,  
Which thought it coldest be of constitution,  
Yet doth it not allay his resolution.  
Old Daedalus his father being dead,  
He now begins to take a greater head;  
With Icarus he purposeth to fly  
As high as heaven, but mark and presently,  
Great Phoebus by his power melts his wings,  
And headlong to the Sea his body flings.  
His fortunes drowned, his corpse the fishes prey,  
His fiery brains quenched in the brinish Sea.  
For now his father's lands, bonds, golden bags,  
Buys him a coach, four Flanders Mares, two nags,  
A brace of geldings, and a brace of whores,  
The one for pocks, the other plains, and moors:  
Viewing his Chariot and his rich attire,  
Makes him believe the world is all on fire.  
He courts it now even at the Court indeed,  
Sometimes on Jennet, sometimes English Steed,  
Pacing with Lacques in the paved streets,  
In glory bowing to each friend he meets,  
(Too prodigal of his feigned Courtesy,  
Which may be termed a proud humility)  
The Ostrich on his head with Beaver rare,  
Upon his hands a Spanish Sent to wear,  
Hairs curled, ears pearled, with Bristows brave & bright  
Bought for true Diamonds, in his false sight;  
All ore perfumed, and, as for him 'tis meet,  
His body's clad i'th' Silk worms winding sheet.  
Now thus accoutred, and attended to,  
In Court and City there's no small ado  
With this young Stripling, that obraids the gods,  
And thinks 'twixt them, and him, there is no odds:  
A haughty look, a more superbious mind,  
And yet amongst his equals tootoo kind.  
A wanton eye, and a lascivious heart,  
That sees no danger, till he feels the smart.  
Now as where tamest feathered fowls abound,  
Foxes keep station, and walk that round,  
So when a raw young heir is come to land  
He shall have foxes wait on every hand;  
When wealth increaseth to a prodigal,  
Who will profusely waste and spend it all,  
There is vainglory; and without all doubt  
The Flatterer will find that fellow out,  
To sooth him in his gross and humorous ways,  
That neither do deserve nor love nor praise:  
For when such men do in applause delight,  
They presently beget a Parasite,  
Who by insinuating adulation  
Debase themselves to others elevation:  
This cringing Serpent I'll no longer smother,  
But give the knave to him, and fool to th'other.  
The Cockpit heretofore would serve his wit,  
But now upon the Friar's stage he'll sit,  
It must be so, though this expensive fool  
Should pay an angel for a paltry stool.  
The largest Taverns of the neatest fashion  
He doth frequent; he drinks for recreation.  
Your Ordinaries, and your Gaming-schooles,  
(The gain of Mercuries, the Mart of fools)  
Do much rejoice when his gold doth appear,  
Sending him empty with a flea in's ear;  
And when he's gone to one another laugh,  
Making his means the subject of their scoff,  
And say, it's pity he's not better taught,  
he's a fair Gamester, but his luck is nought.  
In the mean time, his pockets being scant  
He finds a Lurcher to supply his want,  
One that ere long by playing In-and-in,  
Will carry all his Lordship in a skin:  
Yet as insensible of that device,  
As minding more his pleasure, Cards and dice,  
Before the Sun hath run his circle round,  
He in the centre of his game is found,  
Hazarding that which late was lent unto him,  
Not dreaming any course can quite undo him.  
Thus by degrees his patrimony wastes,  
Whilst he nor sees, hears, feels, or smells, or tastes,  
His folly, shame, abuse, deceit, or woe,  
That future times may force him undergo;  
But makes progression in his wont course,  
With as much understanding as a horse;  
Burning the cards, damning the dice that lost,  
Swearing and cursing, ne'er was man thus crossed,  
Drinking out sorrow, whiffing sighs away,  
Converting day to night, and night to day,  
As if good Nature had abused this wight,  
And done him wrong, that did himself no right.  
O most insensible and sensual beast,  
How are thy intellectual powers decreased,  
Whose understanding is so much condense  
That one would think his Soul within his Sense;  
For any object that the Sense doth move,  
Draws on affection, and affection love;  
Love being settled by its powerful might  
Upon or good, or bad, attracts delight,  
Delight breeds custom, and by times progress  
Engendereth a foul Monster, called Excess:  
Excess joys in extremes, whose violence  
Is always opposite to permanence:  
Thus giving way to appitituall guile,  
They force poor Reason to a far exile.  
But stay my Muse, you must not dare to fly  
Into the secrets of Morality,  
But still proceed i'th' path you have begun,  
Until the setting of this rising Sun,  
Who in his highest Sphere now seated is,  
In the Solstitium of his airy bliss.  
Bend to his bar, through prodigal expense,  
Luxury, drunkenness, incontinence,  
Pride of apparel, and vainglorious acts,  
Painted delusions, ignominious facts,  
Seducing Harlots, sucking Parasites,  
Bewitching Sirens, and lascivious nights,  
Abusive cheat, and illusive friends,  
That seemed to love him for sinister ends,  
Unfruitful plots, matches unfortunate,  
Nocturnal revel intemperate,  
With millions of deceiving vanities,  
Thrown in our ways by Satan's treacheries;  
Depriving men of rich celestial joys,  
For wretched hopes in momentary toys.  
Now being aspired to his utmost pride,  
Each full must have a wane, as ebb, a tide,  
For having by a thousand subtle hooks,  
Squeezed for friends, scribbled in Mercers books,  
Perceiving his decay, they summon strait  
Their wits together, and do lie in wait  
(By the devil's engines) to deprive him quite,  
Both of his liberty, and his delight;  
And ere he can behold his woeful case,  
He is immured in some wretched place.  
This Butterfly with all his garish tire,  
Now melteth like the snow against the fire;  
This Grasshopper, that th' other day was seen  
Capering within his curious silken green,  
Singing shrill notes unto the summer's praise,  
Never expected crabbed winter days,  
Till chilling Autumn, with his falling leaves,  
Shrivels his body, and his hope deceives.  
His silken garments, and his satin robe  
That hath so often visited the Globe,  
And all his spangled rare perfumed attires,  
Which once so glistered in the Torchy Friars,  
Must to the Brokers to compound his debt,  
Or else be pawned to procure him meat.  
Now debt on debt they do accumulate  
Upon his careful body and estate;  
Vowing revenge upon his carcase there,  
Sorrowing only that they did forbear  
So long a time, but now the very stones  
Will pity him, before they hear his moans.  
Nor are his Creditors alone obdure,  
But even his Copesmates, whom he thought so sure  
Shall shrink like slimy snails into the shell,  
Whilst he his plaints unto the walls doth tell,  
Whose friendship was engendered by the Sun  
Reflecting on their base corruption.  
Nay more, his bosom friends (whose near relation  
Should ne'er admit of any separation)  
Come slowly on, as sorry for his grief,  
But have not wherewithal to yield relief.  
And as the nature of the world is such,  
To give the needless, and the needy grudge,  
So this dejected man, borne to this fate,  
(As if thereto he were predestinate)  
Is now denied, who in his prosperous days  
Did winter them that wink at his decays:  
For now the equal justice of the Time,  
Requires each man to keep within his clime;  
For if he straggle from his limits far,  
(Except the guidance of some happy star  
Do rectify his steps, restore his loss)  
He may perhaps come home by weeping cross.  
Now doth his soul begin to gather light,  
Which makes his understanding far more bright,  
Now doth the film of his obscured soul,  
Wear off; and manly Reason doth control  
The vagrant Will, and thirsting Appetite,  
Yielding unto the Soul▪ her due, and right.  
Now is his brain more solid and more dry,  
By apprehension of his misery,  
And not so apt to fancies wandering,  
That ne'er remaineth firm in any thing.  
Now with his heart he wisheth that he had  
But two full years of those which were so bad;  
But all too late, for time doth always pass,  
But ne'er employs a retrograding glass.  
Now he commends the Bee (though void Reason)  
That hoards in summer, for the winter season,  
Admiring much the fabric of their Cell,  
And how they fortify that Citadel:  
A wonder 'tis to see what they invent,  
Both for their lodging, food, and government;  
For, as some grave Philosophers have shown,  
Each Bee eats nought but that which is her own.  
O! thinks he now, had I but kept my store,  
I needed not my carelessness deplore,  
Or had my younger days afforded wit,  
To spend no more, than what I now think fit;  
Had no insinuating Drones come near  
My plenteous hive, I never had come here.  
Another while he looks upon the Ant,  
Sees her great plenty, feels his greater want,  
Admires her providence that laboured still  
Her winter barns in summer time to fill:  
Wonder of Nature, hater of all sloth,  
The most laborious, though of smallest growth.  
Lastly, looks back with a dejected eye  
Upon his pampered days, sports, liberty,  
His midnight revel's, and abundant wine,  
He sacrificed unto Bacchus' shrine,  
His bowls of Nectar, filled up to the brim,  
In which he to his Marmosite did swim;  
His Oysters, Lobster's, Caviar, and Crabs,  
With which he feasted his contagious drabs▪  
Oranges, Hartichoakes, Potato pies,  
Provocatives unto their luxuries;  
His Musics Consort, and a cursed crew,  
That used drink, until the ground looked blue,  
Mongst painted Sepulchers, that love excess,  
Who inwardly are full of rottenness.  
Thus when he views with a more perfect sight,  
His shining morn turned to a gloomy night,  
And all his glory, pomp, and vain expense,  
To have their due reward, and recompense;  
Then bursting forth with acclamation,  
He blames this wicked generation,  
Cursing his follies, and the subtle snares,  
That in his darkness caught him unawares,  
Being forced now thorough his own decay,  
To wish the fragments, erst he threw away,  
To quench his thirst with that inebrious cup,  
Which indigested he had belched up:  
As if the heavenly power had thus ordained,  
Profuse expense should be with want restrained.  
And mark the unresisted hand of heaven,  
That whatsoever Talon it hath given  
Of wit or wealth, it is to some good end,  
To praise his God, or to relieve his friend:  
But he that still in idle waste is found,  
Is worse than he that hid it in the ground.  
I that have sense of blessings, and of woe,  
In my life's compass yet did never know  
An Epicurious, and disordered mind  
Want his affliction in the selfsame kind.  
For drunkenness, they▪ thirsting have acquired;  
And wanted meat, when they have much desired;  
In stead of health, by Fevers they shall melt;  
For wand'ring, want of liberty is felt.  
Thus every act hath its opposing ill,  
Inflicted on it by the Highest will.  
This Gallants circuit, and Itineration,  
Is almost finished in a lower station,  
Whose meager body pined away with grief,  
(For want of seasonable friends relief.)  
Hourly watcheth when the day shall come,  
To lay his body in an earthly tomb:  
Yet oftentimes hope doth awake his spirit,  
And tells him one day yet he shall inherit  
His freedom, and release; which being done,  
Another course he doth intend to run,  
So moderate, and grave, that by the power  
Of him that sits in the immortal tower,  
His second life hatched by supernal fire,  
Cooperating with a true desire  
To rectify his former follies passed,  
Shall make him shine a brighter star at last.  

Epilogue.  
YOu blithe young Rufflers, that do look so big,  
Laugh at the precepts of this Whirligig;  
Mock on with fasetie both yourselves & me,  
Foster your pleasures whilst the golden tree  
Bears fruit enough; glory in what you may,  
Till lusty youth is vanished away;  
Sport like the wanton Fly about the light,  
Until your glorious wings be burned quite;  
Dance like the fish upon the gentle brook,  
Until you swallow both the bait and hook;  
Play with the Pitfall till you unaware  
Are clapped up fast, or tangled in a snare.  
Do what you please, no counsel I'll bestow  
On those whose pregnant wits do overflow:  
But leave them to the mercy of their Fate,  
To know themselves before it be too late:  
For this by true experience I do find,  
Misery, the salve to cure a haughty mind.  
This Epitaph if any do deny,  
May one day prove his weeping Elegy.  

Desine plura puer; & quod nunc instat, agamus,  
Carmina tum melius, cum venerit ipse, canemus.   

— nam quis iniquae  
Tam patiens urbis; tam ferreus ut teneat se.   
FINIS.