THE LONDON PRODIGAL, Or the Unfortunate Spendthrift.  

OFt have I wondered at the various state,  
The strange Moeanders and the turns of Fate,  
All humane actions topsie turvy hurled;  
Let's find some Bedlam for the frantic 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 Philosophic Souls,  
Whom so supine a piety controls;  
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 thyself!  
'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 Father's sake.  
The Miser dead, he stands no more in awe;  
Who dares affront? God dam, Sir, I'll draw.  
Then combs and sets his flaxen Wig with art,  
To make some Whetstone's Lady break her heart;  
Feasts nobly, sets some Crowns upon the score,  
Then to the Playhouse, Tavern, or a Whore:  
E'er evening comes perhaps gets sound 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 resolved to purchase great applause,  
And show his valour in a woman's 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 defy  
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 Cutthroat Papists near.  
Thus their fantastic 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 completely Frenchifyed.  
Such pocky luck does to the Brave befall;  
Ah rotten Whores! Hell's curse light on you all!  
Now doth himself with purging medicines drench,  
And thinks his Doctor dearer than his Wench.  
The Purge, the Syringe, and the Flux endured;  
His pocket drained, himself three quarters cured;  
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 Tailor dun, 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 sponge on Gamesters drink;  
To pimp, to shark for all that ere he gets;  
Or fright some Cully from their Coin and Wits.  
This further Curse these Prodigals attends,  
Their Lives are oft less wretched than their Ends;  
Their thoughts, their actions sacrificed to vice,  
To swearing, drinking, huffing, whores and dice.  
They headlong to their certain ruin 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 Britain, 1673.