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Alexander Brome (Александр Бром)

The Prodigal


NAy perswade not, I've swore
We'l have one pottle more,
Though we run on the score,
And our credits do stretch for't;
To what end does a father
Pine his body, or rather
Damn his soul, for to gather
Such store, but that he has this fetch for't;
That we sons should be high boyes,
And make it all fly boyes,
And when he does die boyes,
Instead of a Sermon we'l sing him a catch for't.


Then hang the Dull wit
Of that white-liver'd cit,
That good-fellowes does hit
In teeth with a red-nose;
May his nose look blew,
Or any dreadfuller hew,
That may speak him untrue,
And disloyal unto the headnose;
'Tis the scarlet that graces,
And sets out our faces,
And that nature base is,
That esteems not a Copper-nose, more than a Lead-nose.


All the world keeps a round,
First our Fathers abound
In wealth and buy ground,
And then leave it behind 'um:
We're straight put in black,
Where we mourn and drink Sack,
And do t'other knack,
While they sleep in their graves we ne'r mind um:
Thus we scatter the store,
As they rak'd it before;
And as for the poor,
We enrich them as fast as our fathers did grind 'um.

Alexander Brome's other poems:
  1. The Safe Estate
  2. Against Corrupted Sack
  3. To his Mistress (WHy dost thou frown my dear, on me?)
  4. The Hard Heart
  5. The Prisoners

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