The Extravagant YOUTH.
OR,
An Emblem of PRODIGALITY.
Tho' he was stout, he can't get out,
in Trouble he'l remain
Young-Men be wise, your Freedom prize,
bad Company refrain.
To the Tune of, King James's Jigg; Or, The Country Farmer.
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COme listen a while and I will relate
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My sad and most dismal deplorable state,
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For now I am in a most woful case,
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Ay running this wild and extravagent race:
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When Silks and Sattins did me adorn,
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I said that I was most Nobly Born,
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Good Counsel I slighted, and held it in scorn,
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But now here behold how I stick in the Horn.
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I gave my self over to ev'ry Vice,
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As Courting, and sporting, with Cards and Dice
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I thought in my heart it would never be day,
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While I was attired in rich array:
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With Boon Companions I did Trade,
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They counted me a Jocular Blade,
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But now all my Glory is clearly decay'd,
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And into the Horn my self have betray'd.
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I once kept my Gelding abroad to Ride,
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My Hat and my feather, and Sword by my side;
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As long as my Pocket was lined with Gold,
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In pleasure I swam, and abroad I roul'd:
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But now no longer can I reign,
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In sorrowful note I here do complain.
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And stick in the Horn where I still must remain;
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And cannot get out if i'de never so fain.
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My Father he went in a Thread-bare Coat,
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And on his old Angels was wont to dote;
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Which he had obtain'd by Usury,
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And now I have spent it as merrily:
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I called for Wine like a Hector stout,
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My Golden Guinnies did flye about,
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I'de Revel and Rant, and i'de keep a fine rout,
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But now I am in where I cannot get out.
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I never would take any thought or care,
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I said that I was my old Fathers Heir,
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My Festival Fellows was Roisterous Boys,
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We liv'd in delights with a thousand joys:
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While we in Splendor did abound,
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Methoughts the world went merrily round,
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But since friends & fortune together hath frownd
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I stick in the Horn, where I still may be found.
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My Father gave me all his free-hold Land,
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And then at my Courtesie he would stand,
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O then thought I, thy Silver shan't rust,
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I'le make it to flye like the Summers Dust:
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Then did I keep my Prancing Naggs,
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Till I had emptied his Golden Bags,
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My Silks flourisht like to a Navy of Flags,
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But now they are worn and torn to Rags.
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I Mortgag'd and sold, and I spent so fast,
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The Miser my father was vert at last,
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To think that I squander'd away such summs,
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He scratcht his ears, and he knawed his thumbs,
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His whole Estate was quite decay'd,
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By those vile Projects which I have play'd,
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Thus I have quite ruin'd the Usurers trade,
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And I in the Horn am a sorrowful Blade.
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Now here an Example I must remain,
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My freedom I never expect again,
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Young Gallants be warned such ruine shun,
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Which has both my father and I undone:
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All comforts now from us are flown,
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My Father in Bedlam makes his moan,
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And I in the Counter a Prisoner thrown,
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This Horn is a Figure by which it is known.
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