No Money, no Friend.  

The Spendthrift he, when 'tis too late,  
Laments his sad and Wretched state:  
And all good Men he doth advise,  
That they would Merry be, and wise.   
The Tune is, All you that do do desire to play  
The Tune is, At Cards, to pass the time away.  

 
 

All you that freely spend your Coin,  
Come learn by this advice of mine;  
That you no more so play the Fool,  
Nor Tipple in the Fuddling-School:  
For when that you have spent your store,  
Your Host will turn you out o'th' door.   

This by experience I do know,  
Who too too lately found it so:  
Five hundred pound was left to me,  
Which I consumed immediately:  
And when my Money was all gone,  
I like an Ass was looked upon.   

While I had Gold and Silver store,  
I thought the world did me adore:  
For then each false dissembling Cur,  
Would try● your humble servant Sir:  
But now my Money is all spent,  
Too late, poor Fool, I do lament.   

When I was in Prosperity,  
Each Top-lath that I passed by:  
Would cringe and bow, and swear to be  
My Servant to Eternity:  
But now alas, my Money's gone,  
And Servants I have never a one.   

But now if to their House I go,  
ere drink they draw, they'll surely know,  
If that my Pocket it will speak,  
Which is enough my heart so break:  
If not, than he who was my friend,  
Out of the door soon will me send.   

Oh what a dreadful thing is this,  
That I of all my Servants miss:  
And those who did me oft invite,  
To drink with them, now do me slight:  
But if again I Money get,  
I surely then shall have more w●t.    

The Second Part,  
to the same Tune.  

Yet is not spending all the Crime,  
For idly than I spent my time,  
And rather than Companions lack,  
I'd pick up every Idle Jack:  
And he that would me Master call,  
Should me command, my Purse and all.   

The Hostis she would flatter then,  
And say I was a pretty Man:  
And this so tickled then mine ear,  
That I my praise so oft did hear:  
Come hang't said I, gives ' tather Pot,  
And thus I feasted every Sot.   

At last I had no Money left,  
And then was I of joys bereft:  
My Host and Host they did frown,  
And said I was a Drunken Clown:  
So than was I despised by all,  
That me before did Master call.   

From street to street as I did pass,  
Foulkes cried, there goes a Drunken Ass,  
Who not long since had Money store,  
But now no Creature is more poor:  
For Pots and Pipes made him so low,  
That like a Beggar he doth go.   

Then who would pity such a one,  
Who could not keep himself alone,  
If Wife and Children he had had,  
The case had then been far more sad:  
But he no pity doth deserve,  
If for a bit of Bread he starve.   

This is the pity I do find,  
That when I had it was so kind,  
To him that said he was my friend,  
I'd give him Wine, and money lend:  
But now myself I have undone,  
My company all men do shun.   

Let this my case a warning be,  
That none may play the tool like me,  
A greater plague there cannot be,  
Then falling from Prosperity,  
Into a state so deadly low,  
Your nearest friends will not you know.   

Account your Money as your Friend,  
So shall you flourish to the end,  
But when you come of friends to borrow,  
It will but aggravate your sorrow:  
To see how they will slight you then,  
And say you are the worst of men.   

Your Pot-Companions will you slight,  
In whom they once did take delight:  
And while your Money it doth last,  
With Oaths they'll tie their friendship fast  
But when that you have wasted all,  
Then from you will your Servants fall.   

Such servants you may have good store,  
Who help to eat you out of Door:  
And by their drinking in Ere●ss,  
Will help to make you Moneyless,  
Then Youngmen warning take by me,  
That of my Money was too srey.   

This doth my Passion much provoke,  
To think when I am like to Choke,  
Those that I heretofore did feast,  
They will not mind me in the 〈◊〉:  
Nor make me drink, who once were proud  
To drink with me to be allowed.   

My Kindred and Relations near,  
Who once did vow they loved me dear:  
Will know me not, but me despise,  
As loathsome to their scornful eyes:  
For without Money there's no Friend,  
And thus my Song 〈◊〉 Woe doth End.   
FINIS.    

Printed for F. Coles, T. Vere, J. Wright, J. Clarke, W, Thackeray, and T. Passenger.