The Prodigal Son Converted, OR The Young-man return'd from his Rambles.  
Wit ne're till now, was cried about the street,  
At the low rate o a poor Penny sheet;  
Sharp times will make sharp wits, not fear sharp tongues,  
'tis we who money want which suffer wrongs;  
You can't command a Poet with a frown  
To writ new Songs: but yours, for a Crown:  
Here's that w ll please you sure, and much befreind ye.  
You'll thank the Author, if the Devil be n't in ye.  
To a pleasant New Play-house Tune called The Delights of the Bottle, &c.  
 


THe delights& the pleasures  
of a man without care,  
For the present are sweet,  
but ith' end prove a snare,  
The extravagant youth,  
who in frolics runs mad,  
Being vicious o'er much,  
will have cause to be sad.  
Debauches are sorrows,  
and robs us of rest,  

Tis the temperate man  
with enjoyment is blessed.    

From fifteen till thirty  
just half of my time,  
I have lived in excess,  
and have thought it no crime.  
My Father being dead,  
I was left a young fool,  
Companion for none,  
but for boys in the school,  
Debauches are sorrows  
and robs us of rest  

Tis the temperate man  
with, enjoyment is blessed.    

Then some of my friends  
did begin for so that  
That I had an estate  
I soon harkened to that,  
And I quickly sound Tutors  
to show me the way,  
In ranting and roaring  
to spend night and day;  
These tickled my fancy  
with 'vice all a-mode,  

Then I must be riding  
in that pleasant Road,    

I quickly arrived  
to a wretched estate  
To act what the Devil  
could think or Creat,  
But since they are past  
I will count it no sin  
To name them in order  
as I did begin.  
But my chief delight  
was in 'vice all-a-mode,  

And I often was riding  
in that pleasant Road     

The Second part,  
To the same Tune.  

FIrst the Tavern me courted  
to lend it some coin,  
And to taste of these blessings  
that sprung from the vine,  
Which I found to be pleasant  
and always inviting  
So sweet is that sin,  
which we most do delight in  
The fiddlers to curse  
and the drawers command  

Is enough for those Fops  
who no more understand.    

The Bottles of Bacchus  
did my strength overcome,  
And with empty Pockets  
sent me realing home,  
Sick qualms of the stomach  
did blame my hard drinking,  
But I counted repentance  
was scarce worth my thinking;  
The fiddlers to curse  
and the drawers command  

Is enough for those Fops  
who no more understand.    

Then high for a Wench  
when my blood it was warm,  
If she were but in rags  
she might easily charm,  
And enjoy all I had  
if she seemed to be kind;  
And would simper out Bawdy  
to tickle my mind;  
Then home to her lodging  
she might easily draw me,  

My flames made me bold  
that I cared not who saw me.    

Though it was but a hole  
where this Lady did ly,  
Yet she made me amends  
you shall hear by and by  
With a kiss and a smile  
and a sigh all-a-mode  
She guided my hand to  
the very right Road,  
Which home to her lodging  
full often did draw me  

My joys were so great  
that I cared not who saw me.    

that sport I soon learned,  
and that which is worse,  
She taught me to swear  
to damn and to curse,  
That in half a years time  
I had practised so well,  
That for drinking and whoring  
ther's none did excels,  
For swearing and cursing  
in common discourse,  

I thought, if left out,  
made my language the worse.    

Then next to accomplish  
myself like a man,  
I must learn for to game well,  
as fast as I can:  
With some Bully Hector,  
I must venture a pound,  
There's enough of those blades  
that may quickly be found,  
Forswearing and cursing  
in common discourse,  

And to win all my guineas  
which I thought much worse,    

All which by degrees  
my estate did so waste,  
I began to think that  
I made too much hasse  
Being cloyed with enjoymen●s  
of such foolish pleasure,  
I'll now led my life in  
a tempera●e measure  
Yet with a true friend  
merry and jolly,  

With a Bottle or two  
I do count it no folly.    

What we drink in exce●s  
makes the appetite dull,  
And empties the bags  
be they never so full:  
It shortens our lives  
and deprives us of heal●h  
Then Young men beware  
and make much of your weal●h  
Yet with a true friend  
to be merry and jolly,  

With a Bottle or two  
I do count it no folly.      

Printed for R, Burton, at the horse-shoe in West-Smithfield.