A new Ballad, Intituled, a warning to youth,
Shewing the lewd life of a Merchants son of London, and the misery that at the last
he sustained by his riotousnesse. The tune is, the Lady Darcy.
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IN London dwelt a Merchant man
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that left unto his son,
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A thousand pound in Land a year
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to spend when he was gone:
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With coffers cram'd with golden crowns,
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most like a Father kind,
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To have him follow his own steps
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and bear the self same mind.
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Thus every man doth know, doth know
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and his beginning see,
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But none so wise can shew can shew,
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what will his ending be.
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No sooner was his father dead,
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and closed in his grave,
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But this his wild and wanton son
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his mind to lewdness gave.
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And being but of tender years,
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found out such company,
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Which prov'd his fatall overthrow
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and final misery.
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In gluttony and drunkenness,
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and filthy letchery,
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Of all the sins will soonest bring
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a man to misery.
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Within the Seas of wanton love,
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his heart was drownd so deep,
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A night he could not quietly
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without strange women sleep.
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And therefore kept them secretly,
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to feed his souls desire.
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Apparel'd all like gallant youths,
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in Pages trim attire:
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Their garments were of Crimson silk
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bedeckt with lace of gold,
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Their curled hair was white as milk
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most comely to behold:
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He gave then for their cognizance
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a purple bleeding heart;
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In which two silver arrows seemd,
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the same in twain to part.
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Thus secret were his wanton sports,
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thus private was his pleasure,
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Thus Harlots in the shape of men,
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did waste away his treasure,
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O woe to lust and letchery,
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oh woe to such a vice,
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That buyes repentance all too late,
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and at too dear a price.
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Yet he repented not at all
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so wilfull was his mind,
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He could not see his infamy
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for sin had made him blinde.
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But in his heart desir'd a change
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of wanton pleasure so,
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That day by day he wishes still
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strange women for to know:
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And so discharging of his train,
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and selling of his Land,
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To travel into Countries strange
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he quickly took in band:
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And into Antwerp speedily,
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thus all afflaunt he goes,
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To see the dainty Flemish girls
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and gallant Dutchland Froes.
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For still quoth he the Dutchland Froes,
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are kind to Englishmen,
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Ile have my pleasure of those girls
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or never come again:
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And being arriv'd in Antwerp streets,
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he met a lovely Dame,
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That was a Widdows daughter dear
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of good report and fame.
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Her beauty like the purple Rose
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so glistered in his eye,
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That ravisht with the same, he crav'd
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her secret company,
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But she like to an honest Maid
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by no means would consent,
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To satisfie his lustfull eye,
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as was his false intent.
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