Poem by Alexander Brome

The Prodigal

1.

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.

2.

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.

3.

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.

1. To his Mistress (LAdy you'l wonder when you see)
2. The Damosel
3. The Wary Woer
4. On the Queens Arrival
5. On the Kings Return

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