THE RAKE: OR, THE Libertine's Religion. A POEM.  ECCLES. XI. Verse ix. 
Rejoice, O Young Man, etc.  
Trahit sua quemque Voluptas.  
LONDON, Printed for R. Taylor, near Stationer's HALL., 1693.   

THE PREFACE.  
PErhaps our Title may at first Sight seem to carry a kind of Contradiction, as if Religion and Libertinism were Notions incompatible: But to clear that Preliminary we must aver, That even the grossest Infidel, that at least believes no other God, however makes Gods of his own. And as Devotion in some sort or other naturally follows the Belief of a Heaven; So he that makes Pleasure his Heaven, may be a Zealot and a Bigot, even to a Superstition in his own Profession; and not only bend the Knee, but prostrate the Affections, Heart and Soul, with all the most passionate Tenders of Worship and Adoration to his Darling Idolatry. As such than we presume to define our Libertine's Religion, and as such is our present Golden Image set up, and the following Io paeans to Pleasure and Licentiousness, are the Timbrels, Psaltries, and Sackbuts Playing before it.  
'Tis true, those hot-spured Nebuchadnezzar-men (as Magisterially as they bear themselves) have the Misfortune sometimes from high-flown Idol-makers, to bring themselves at last, like him too, to humble Pasture-Grazers. A more than Morning Headache, a Morning Heart-ach too often attends the too Riotous Overnight Revels. But alas, no wonder; for the Libertine's Jollity is but a kind of Grashopper's Mirth; his unprovident Summer's Chirping, brings him in the end to his Doleful Winter-starving.  
But to leave this Melancholy Consideration, and return to our gayer Contemplations: Our present, or rather late Author, (for to tell you the Truth, he is now no longer in the Land of the Living) We desire our Reader to believe, was a very feeling Compiler of the following Discourse, und as being too Zealous a Homager of the abovenamed Image-work, and one who has not only bend his Knee, but laid his Bones by it: As such, we are the bolder to Recommend the Work as the Labour of so hearty an Artist.  
This Piece therefore as containing our mad Rover's own Memoires, or rather his own Effigies in Miniature, he has made bold to Frontispiece it with a short Fragment of Canonical Flourish; a little half-Text of Scripture, viz. Rejoice, O young Man, being truly as much as was required for his Purpose, and therefore curtailed accordingly. But indeed the Libertine's Oracle being spirited by another sort of Enthusiasm, a very small Pittance of Book-Inspiration, (and that too cramped and warped to their own Bend) serves their Turn.  
A Libertine, that John Galloper that lights Life at both Ends, that drives like Phaeton, and generally drops like him too; by the Impulse of his Religion, looks up to Heaven for no other expected Blessing from it, but its Rain and its Sunshine, and considers the whole Creation as only his Garden and Confectionary, and the God of it as no more than his Providore. As such is his Religion, his whole Prayers have but this single Article, viz. Give us this Day our daily Riot; and his Thanksgivings are according; that is, if he has any. For looking upon All Things, the whole Product of Nature, as no less than his Right and Due, he considers the Ceremonial Compliment of Thanks and Gratitude as an unnecessary Supererogation.  
However to do Justice to our departed Author, the Rover held not out to his Catastrophe; we must declare he made his Exit to the World under some true Pangs of Conversion: And the Libertine dying first, he lived to write his own Elegy, to subscribe his Farewell to his falling Dagon, and to build new Altars to a fairer Divinity: And as such, you will find this Posthumous Piece, the Product of a double Conception: The Libertine Begins, but the Penitent Concludes.   

THE LIBERTINE.  ECCLES. XI. Verse ix. Rejoice, O Young Man, etc. 

Rejoice,— and so I will; for now's the time,  
While I am Healthful, Young, and in my Prime;  
While blooming Nature sports within my Veins,  
And Tides of Wealth around me flow,  
And I can all the Charming Pleasures know,  
Which most Officious Gold can show.  
Now I am loose from th' Adamantine Chains  
Of Poverty, and all those dreaded Ills,  
The Thought of which my Soul with Horror fills.  
But why should such intruding Thoughts molest,  
The pleasing Revels of my Breast?  
Hence, hence, ye Bugbears, I am free,  
And will enjoy my much- loved Liberty,  
Tho' Musty Morals teach the contrary.   

II.  
How Grave those Dons of mighty Beards appear,  
(For round their Chins their Wisdom lies)  
Who Youthful Joys persuade me to forbear!  
How all their crabbed Lectures I despise!  
Alas, their youthful days are o'er;  
And now, because they can perform no more,  
Look mighty dull, and so seem mighty wise.  
It is resolved, no plausible Pretence  
Shall fright me from the dear Delight of Sense.  
For why, ye Learned Sots, from Bounteous Heaven,  
To Man was Appetite to Pleasure given?  
Ye cannot say, 'twas for a Curse designed.  
No, no, the most Transporting Blessing,  
Of wishing first, and then Possessing,  
Was ordered for the Good of all Mankind.  
Shall I before a Table sit,  
Filled with the Dainties of a choice Repast,  
To gratify the Eye, but more the Taste?  
And shall my Friend, when I myself prepare,  
To Feast upon his dainty Fare,  
Unkindly then command me not to eat?  
It is determined, while my Youth holds out,  
And Time is in the present Tense,  
I most industriously will try,  
In Pleasure's great Variety,  
To taste the Marrow, and the Quintessence,  
Which can be found in all the Joys of Sense.  
But when in Age, the Palsy, Stone, or Gout  
Shall wrack my Limbs, (which Heaven forbid) I then  
Perhaps may rail at Pleasure, like these Men;  
And tho' all Joys have left me far behind,  
I'll chew the Cudd of Pleasure in my Mind,  
And so at least in Thought I will be Young again.   

III.  
But tush— let all such hideous Thoughts begun,  
I've other things to think upon;  
Let me contrive the means, whereby I may  
With greatest Satisfaction and Delight,  
Lengthen the winged hours of welcome Day,  
And while away, th'as welcome Ones of Night.  
Who can describe the Pleasures, which attend  
A fair kind She, a Bottle, and a Friend?  
How they divide the Empire of our Souls,  
While each with grateful Tyranny controls:  
When I've all day in Pleasure's Circle run,  
(Pleasures which only to the Wits are known,)  
At Night in Sylvia's, or in Chloes Arms,  
Am locked secure from any Mortal harms.  
While Plodding Sots all day on measures think,  
(If they to thinking can pretend)  
To save the Trash they have no heart to spend.  
With Women, Wits, and Soul-inspiring Drink.  
I push the tedious Minutes on;  
And when the present Day is gone,  
My Mind a Stranger both to Care and Sorrow,  
Longs for the Joys of the Approaching Morrow.   

IV.  
Jack Wildblood come, my Levy to attend,  
Tom Ramble too— my Dear, and Bosom Friend.  
But see Ned Hopeful makes Approach,  
More than half Cropsick with last Night's Debauch:  
Will. Friendley comes, as sure a Card as e'er  
Took Bumpers off at Vintner's Bar.  
Ha!— my two Twins of Clinch and Repartee,  
Are come from Will's to wait on me.  
Welcome, dear Rogues, thrice welcome to you all;  
Oh I could hug you with such force,  
Till my Soul clove to every one of Yours.  
Let's join our Lips, at least our Cheeks,  
Come, come, my Friends, I'll not allow  
A sullen Look, or Clouded Brow;  
Of all known Pleasures, let us lose the Reins,  
And try by some exalted Strains,  
To be as merry as the Ancient Greeks.   

V.  
Come, let us leave this Smoky House,  
And at next Tavern take a large Carouse;  
A large Carouse to spur us on,  
To do what never yet was done,  
By Ancient Hector, or by Modern Rake,  
Some Daring Action, which may be  
Recorded to Posterity;  
A Deed, which shall with Terror make,  
The Sons of Midnight, wrapped in Flannel, quake.  
frightening of Cullies, and Bombasting Whores,  
Wring off Knockers, and from Posts and Doors,  
Rubbing out Milkmaids, and some other Scores,  
Scouring the Watch, or Roaring in the Streets,  
Lamp-blacking Signs, with divers other Feats,  
Are low Mechanic Actions, most unfit  
For Us, the Sons of Fancy, Sense and Wit.  
Oh, may the God of Wine inspire  
Our Souls with some uncommon Fire;  
That when the Grapes bewitching Fume  
Has thinking Reason overcome;  
Let loose to wild Extravagance we may  
Such a bold Action do, that all Mankind,  
When they have heard the Deed, may wondering say,  
What Men in Devil's Shapes this thing have wrought?  
How could this Frolic enter in the Thought?  
So lewd, they've even beyond Damnation sinned.   

VI  
To Morrow, (if Tradition do not lie)  
Is my Birth's Anniversary,  
Which has with solemn Joy been kept,  
Since first from my Indulgent Mother's Womb,  
(Nature's most curious working Room)  
Into this World of Jollity I stepped.  
To morrow then, my Noble Friends, I crave  
Your Company, to honour my poor Treat,  
Though Water, Earth and Air, ransacked I have,  
To purchase what the Nicest Stomaches eat:  
But what in Pleasure Eating does deny,  
Most Noble Liquids shall the want supply.  
The richest Wines, ere yet by Money bought,  
Or to Judicious Tastes were ever brought,  
I have procured a numerous Store;  
Wine, which as yet has scaped the Claws  
Of the Adulterating Vintner's Paws:  
But fine, and true, as from the Grape it came;  
The very sight on't will surprise,  
And tempt as much as Caelia's Eyes;  
And if the Looks do this, how will the Taste inflame?  
Of which, when each of us has drunk  
About an Hundred Healths, or so,  
To this kind She, and that obliging Punk,  
Our living Friends, remembering those that are  
Stepped out of Life, (we know not where.)  
Behold, you shall another show,  
And 'tis, my Friends, so fine a sight,  
As might the very Gods invite,  
To leave a while their Glittering Seats on high,  
To come, and Revel with Mortality.  
It is a mighty Punch-Bowl, Broad and Deep,  
Filled to the Brim, with such a Juice,  
As can in Men, half Dead, new Life infuse,  
In which, what living Mortal would refuse:  
To soak his Soul, and lay his Cares to sleep:  
Round it we'll sit, and various Healths we'll drink,  
Till we have lost the very Power to think.  
Then when wild Notions, fanciful and vain,  
Shall float within the Regions of the Brain;  
And with Copernicus we shall suppose,  
The World runs round, because our Heads do so.  
When the Bowl finds an Ebb, and each one grows  
So wise, his Right-hand Man he does not know:  
It must not then be said, that we,  
By Drink were overcome; for then,  
We levelled are with common Men:  
Drunkenness is not known to Gentlemen,  
Ours was all Trance, or else a kind of Ecstasy.   

VII.  
Since we must part, my dearest Friends, adieu;  
But let me beg that you would not forget,  
Where we to morrow are to meet.  
Now Time's a Drug, and lies upon our Hands,  
What shall I do? or, Whither shall I go?  
In strange suspense, each Thought within me stands:  
What, if a while I study,— Oh! the Thought  
Has a cold Sweat upon me brought.  
Study,— What! Turn dull musty Authors o'er,  
And upon dusty Volumes poor?  
No, no, let Schoolboys, Priests, and Lawyers read,  
And those, whose Studies purchase them their Bread.  
To spend my time, I better Methods know;  
For since I read my primer o'er,  
Thinkings the thing I most abhor:  
Nor have I for this Twenty Years, or more,  
Read any thing, except it were  
A Song, Play, Novel, or Lampoon.  
But still I know not how nor where,  
To spend this Lovely Afternoon.  
If to the Park I go, there's nothing there  
That's Tempting, Beautiful, and Fair;  
Since Ladies must abhor a place,  
Which by lewd Custom now is grown,  
The Rendezvous of half the Mob in Town,  
Where Footmen, with the Greasy Cook-Maids walk,  
And Low-prized Cracks in Masks, with Cullies talk;  
'Tis these have brought the Mell in such Disgrace.  
Nor are the Walks of all the Inns of Court,  
Free from this Vermine's lewd resort.  
At last I've thought out where to go,  
I'll to the Playhouse haste, and there  
I shall a First-Rate Beau appear.  
For while the Ladies at my Rigging gaze,  
The Envy of the Dressing Sparks I raise;  
Who oft approve of what they will not praise.  
The Play begun, in Corner of the Pit,  
Close by some well-dressed Vizor Mask, I sit;  
And Ten to One in private League,  
But she and I contrive some sweet Intrigue:  
We never mind what on the Stage is done,  
Nor care we if the House with Clapps or Hissing shake.  
If we have so much Patience as to stay,  
To the conclusion of the Play:  
Taking a Coach, away we drive,  
To House of Entertainment, where  
The Business of our Joys we soon contrive,  
If I can think the Nymph but Young and Fair.  
But if her Face or Humour I dislike,  
My Courtship I can soon give o'er.  
Then with the little Disappointment sick,  
With honest Ned or Tom, or who I find,  
With a full Glass, I ease my Mind,  
And think of Jilting Womankind no more.   

VIII.  
No more— Good Heaven, forbid the thought,  
As well to live I may forbear,  
As not the Joys of Women share:  
Those Luscious Creatures, whom the Heavenly Powers  
Made to delight us in Life's tedious Hours;  
Without whom, Life a Burden were,  
How oft have I been Captive caught  
By this Nymph's humour, by another's Dress;  
One's Face ensnares, and tother's Wit no less,  
Such different Charms the Sex possess.  
For there was never yet a Woman known,  
If into Years she was not grown,  
But had a Charm or two for me;  
Not that a Woman's Slave I e'er will be.  
I can love strongly for an Hour,  
As the Fit takes, perhaps a Day or more:  
But none of all the Female Train,  
Did to a Month ere yet extend her Reign.  
No, no, my Heart shall ever be  
Open to each new Face I see,  
And I will Revel in my dear Beloved Variety.   

IX.  
How from my Soul, I pity those poor Slaves,  
Doomed to the Drudgery of a Wife;  
Who, when they might be free, by pious Knaves,  
Are sentenced to Confinement, during Life.  
How was the Cheat imposed on Man at first,  
That Two should willingly be doubly cursed:  
That in One She, I bound my wild Desires,  
And vow for ever to maintain Love's Fires;  
Tho' the first Month perhaps the Flame expires.  
A Bondage, far more cruel than was felt  
By Jews, when they in Egypt's Bondage dwelled.  
Increase and Multiply the Earth,  
Was the first Blessing Heaven bestowed,  
No Bounds to that Command were then allowed:  
But our forefather's multiplied their kind,  
On whom they pleased, not to one She confined;  
Their Appetites by Nature's dictates moved,  
They looked, they liked, and whom they liked they loved.  
What barbarous Age to Marriage than gave Birth,  
That cursed Noose, that Antidote to Love:  
For were my Mistress Beautiful and Fair,  
As we imagine that the Angels are;  
And were she so with Riches, blest by Fate,  
That she scarce knew the end of her Estate.  
(On slavish Souls, how strong these Charms would move)  
'Tis owned, I would enjoy her, might we be,  
As we were born, and as our Thoughts are free:  
But if she never must be mine,  
Unless her Hand in Holy Rites I'd join,  
By Heaven, the Gilded Baby I'd resign.  
I hate 'bove all things to be Bought and Sold,  
And would not wear a Fetter, tho' of Gold.   

X.  
The Thoughts of Marriage, how it turns my Brains,  
Which Thousand Mischiefs for one Good contains;  
Fit only for the Plodding Sot,  
Who cause his Sire in Wedlock him begot,  
Therefore he'll follow in the same dull trot:  
Or those tame Fools, who every day by turns,  
Are blest with Gilded, or ungilded Horns.  
But see, to chase these Thoughts away,  
In a loose Dress, just like the Queen of Love,  
My Mistress hither does her Footsteps move:  
Cosmelia Wanton, Careless, Young and Gay,  
Come to my Arms, of all thy Sex, the best,  
And let me kiss thy warm and downy Breast;  
In kill Raptures I'll thy Waste entwine,  
And strive to join my very Soul with thine.  
I fell soft Love is creeping in each Vein,  
I cannot one short Minute more refrain,  
So strong the Passion is, so fierce the pain.  
Come then, Cosmelia, to my dark Alcove,  
And in the most endearing Pleasure prove,  
That none but such as we know how to Love.   

XI.  
She's gone— but yet my Transports are not o'er,  
I hug her still in Effigy;  
And tho' she's fled, her Image still I see.  
Divinest Creature, whose Embrace,  
I still above all Earthly Pleasure's place:  
Which when with thee compared are Spiritless & Poor.  
Boy, bring a Bottle of the choicest Wine,  
Such as the God's drink, when they would discourse  
Of their Intrigues, and high Amours.  
For in the Amorous Combat, I have lost  
Some Spirits, which must again recruited be;  
'tis as I wished, a Liquor half Divine,  
See in the Glass the Atoms dance and shine.  
No mortal sure can of more Pleasures boast,  
For Wine and Women do by turns supply  
The Cravings of my Appetite.  
Where is the Man that is more blest than I?  
While all my Hours I spend in soft Delight;  
I laugh at all those Pious Fools,  
By Priest-craft cheated, lead their Lives by Rules.   

XII.  
What ails me?— sure I am not well,  
My Thoughts are on the sudden grown  
Tumultuous; yet the cause I cannot tell,  
A sullen Damp has seized my Soul,  
And I'm uneasy whilst alone.  
What can it be, which thus destroys  
The Relish of my former Joys?  
And makes me with a strange Affright,  
Remember former past Delight:  
I think I'm not Bewitched nor mad,  
What then should make me now so sad?  
Perhaps 'tis Conscience, with her croaking Voice,  
That in my Breast has made this mighty Noise:  
The Name I've often heard, 'tis true,  
But ne'er till now its Office knew.  
If it be that which thus does howl,  
I'll quickly silence her unwelcome Chat,  
And Wine, and Company, and Play,  
Shall chase the Evil Spirit away:  
I'll hear no more her canting Stuff.  
But if she does me to the Tavern follow,  
While I large Brimmers swallow:  
If she'll be bribed, she shall have Wine enough.  
Troublesome Fiend, such Michiefs to create:  
But 'tis resolved, if thy tormenting Clack  
Can silenced be, or laid asleep,  
Store of the strongest Wines thou shalt not lack;  
While I without thy noise will choicest Pleasures reap.   

XIII.  
All will not do, I find 'tis but in vain,  
T' appease this new raised Hurricane.  
The more the Storm I strove t' oppose,  
The higher still the Billows rose;  
Nor would the Fiend be quelled,  
Tho' I tall mighty Bumpers filled:  
Nor will her Noise be overcome  
With all the Wine in Christendom.  
I am alone, Dejected, and at home.  
And now it more outrageous grows,  
Feign would it speak, what yet I fear,  
Would not be grateful to my Ear.  
Am I a Coward? Shall it ere be said,  
I of a puling Conscience am afraid?  
Speak then, if such thou art; I bid thee speak,  
And all thou lab'rest with, disclose;  
I'll freely bear thy Whip, thy Sting, thy Check,  
Tho' what th' Event may be, Heaven only knows.   

XIV.  
In a grave Tone his Conscience then begins;  
Mistake me not, young Man, I was not sent  
To be your Plague or Punishment;  
But as a Monitor to warn you of your Sins:  
Had you a virtuous course pursued,  
And not been vicious, vain, or lewd;  
From me no Trouble you should e'er receive:  
'Tis you the Whips and Axes give.  
And I who was your Counsellor designed,  
A kind of Executioner you find:  
The Strokes and Lashes which you feel  
From me, were ordered all by Heaven,  
To be in Love, not Anger, given;  
To make you think of that, and not be fond of Hell.   

XV.  
Think not the Word a Bugbear made by Priests,  
Or craftily invented by some Law,  
To keep the Headstrong Multitude in awe.  
I know how much you, who would Wits be thought,  
Into Contempt all serious Things have brought:  
Religion serves to make you thousand Jests;  
And when your Heads with Wine are full,  
Too oft the Majesty of Heaven you ridicule.  
Think you his Justice will for ever sleep?  
Such vile Affronts will he for ever bear,  
From crawling Dust and Ashes, as you are?  
'Tis very strange that you should disbelieve,  
The Being of a Place, which every Day  
You wish, in Oaths and Curses, would receive  
Your Souls and Bodies. But your ready Plea  
Is that, They're only words of course, which slip  
Sometimes between the Cup and Lip;  
And that you hope of such Mistakes,  
That Heaven at all no notice takes.  
But let not Sin too long deceive,  
And of your Noblest Faculties, your Soul bereave:  
For as you sow, the very same you'll reap,  
And Vengeance will be sure, although it seem to creep.   

XVI.  
Are you so sworn to Company and Drink,  
As not to find One leisure Hour to think?  
But that you cannot, nay you dare not do:  
Your Mind would find you then, and represent  
Your Crimes in lively Colours, to your view.  
For when the serious Thoughts approach,  
You stifle 'em in lewd Debauch.  
But since I find you are disposed to hear,  
Pray let me whisper something in your Ear.   

XVII.  
Can you suppose, or did you ere believe,  
You were for nothing else designed,  
Only for Pleasure's sake to live?  
And taste no Joy, but what in Sense you find?  
If so, than every Brute you view,  
Is happier by far than you;  
They have no Love nor hatred, Joy nor Sorrow;  
Nor have the anxious Thoughts about the Morrow.  
Many than Man have Lives of longer date,  
Their Senses too are far more delicate.  
No no, above the Beasts you're lift in Thought,  
Tho Vice has Man below their Order brought.  
If for some higher end you were assigned,  
Call up the Noblest Powers of your Mind;  
Act first your Reason, humbly then believe,  
And let your Passions on new Objects fall.  
But oh in vain, in vain I call,  
The Soul is buried down so deep in Vice,  
It has no Power to act, no Power to rise.   

XVIII.  
Accursed Vice,— what Magic dost thou use,  
That Man should thy hard Service choose?  
How willingly he labours for his Ruin,  
And Toils and Sweats still for his own undoing.  
How strangely some Iniquity have ploughed,  
Forced to make Brick, when Straw was not allowed.  
Tho all the Wages in this Life she pays,  
Her Slaves, are Pain, Want, Poverty, Disgrace;  
What Tortures in the other Life they feel,  
No Thought can guests, no Tongue can tell.  
Could we survey the Mansions of the Dead,  
How many Millions should we find,  
Whom Lust, Intemperance, Revenge, and Pride,  
Thither in Blooming Years have sent— beside;  
The Living here in Magic Chains are led,  
That they no Mischief see, and will be blind;  
And from their Lethargy, not thousands wake,  
Till they are plunged into the Burning-Lake.   

XIX.  
All I have said, Young Man, will be in vain,  
If still your Prejudice you will maintain  
Against Religion; and believe  
It is a Trick invented to deceive,  
What with it cunning Men have done;  
(Which Juggles Mouths of Atheists serves to fill.)  
It does not therefore follow still,  
That there is no such thing at all:  
Its Principles examine, search its Rules,  
Which when impartially weighed, you'll own,  
Those who its Dictates slight, are very Fools.  
Commands it any thing, but what we must  
Confess for our own good, is just?  
If to be Temperate and chaste,  
And not the Oil of Life, on Wine and Women waste;  
Be not by far to be preferred,  
Than running blindfold with the vicious Herd;  
Let Folly take the Chair, and Sense and Reason fall.   

XX.  
Besides, forbids it any thing,  
But what to Body, Soul, or Name,  
Does Ruin and Destruction bring?  
On Vice Diseases do themselves entail,  
Which first or last, to visit will not fail.  
Gouts, Palsies, Dropsies, do the Drunkard rack,  
Nor wants the Lecher Pains in Shins and Back.  
How much disturbed do the Revengeful sleep?  
And with what Fear to Gold do Misers creep?  
Vice ever to itself uneasy was,  
While virtue's always calm, and still the same.  
These are the Roads of Infamy or Fame,  
And you are free to choose which Path you please.   

XXI.  
But above all, think, should you still go on,  
And Vice by Custom be habitual grown;  
And End at last will come, and then you'll wish  
You ne'er had cried to my Advices,— pish.  
You're young, and Youth will quickly slide away:  
Nay, Death perhaps may find you, ere this Day  
Give place to Night▪ think then, with Horror think,  
What the Event will be:— and do not cherish  
The Thought, you die just like the Beasts that perish.  
No, no, above, there will a Judgement pass,  
On all the Actions here you've done:  
The Judge will not be bribed, and I'm no less  
Against you than a thousand Witnesses.  
When it is proved how much you've broke the Laws,  
Where is your Advocate to plead your Cause?  
But yet, dear Youth, as yet 'tis not too late,  
Repent— with Shame, with Horror, and Regret,  
On your past Life look on, and never more,  
No, not in Thought, act former Vices o'er.  
heavens blessing crave each Morning when you rise;  
Without it venture not to close your Eyes.  
Be Temperate, be chaste, be Just, and Wise,  
This will a Heavenly Mansion for you get.  
But above all, do not this Rule forget;  
Repent betimes, before your Sun of Youth, is set.   
FINIS.   

ADVERTISEMENT.  
FAtal Friendship; Or, The Drunkard's Misery: A satire against that pernicious and dangerous Vice of Hard-Drinking. Written (by way of Essay) by a young Gentleman, a little before his Death; who lately fell an unhappy Sacrifice to the Bottle. Printed for R. Taylor, near Stationers-Hall; and Rich. Southby, at the Fleece in Fleetstreet, near Chancery-Lane-End. Price Stitched, sixpence.