The Extravagant YOUTH.  
OR, An Emblem of PRODIGALITY.  
Tho' he was stout, he can't get out,  
in Trouble he'll remain  
Youngmen be wise, your Freedom prize,  
bad Company refrain.  
To the Tune of, King Iames'sJigg; Or, The Country Farmer.  
 

COme listen a while and I will relate  
My sad and most dismal deplorable state,  
For now I am in a most woeful case,  
My running this wild and extravagent race:  
When Silks and Satins did me adorn,  
I said that I was most Nobly Born,  
Good Counsel I slighted, and held it in scorn,  
But now here behold how I stick in the Horn.   

I gave myself over to every Vice,  
As Courting, and sporting with Cards and Dice  
I thought in my heart it would never be day,  
While I was attired in rich array:  
With Boon Companions I did Trade,  
They counted me a jocular Blade,  
But now all my Glory is clearly decayed,  
And into the Horn myself have betrayed.   

I once kept my Gelding abroad to Ride,  
My Hat and my feather, and Sword by my side,  
As long as my Pocket was lined with Gold,  
In pleasure I swum, and abroad I roul'd:  
But now no longer can I reign,  
In sorrowful note I here do complain,  
And stick in the Horn where I still must remain,  
And cannot get out if i'd never so fain.   

My Father he went in a Threadbare Coat,  
And on his old Angels was wont to dote;  
Which he had obtained by Usury,  
And now I have spent it as merrily:  
I called for Wine like a Hector stout,  
My Golden Guinnies did fly about,  
I'd Revel and Rant, and i'd keep a fine rout,  
But now I am in where I cannot get out.   

I never would take any thought or care,  
I said that I was my old Father's Heir,  
My Festival Fellows was Roisterous Boys,  
We lived in delights with a thousand joys:  
While we in Splendour did abound,  
Methoughts the world went merrily round,  
But since friends & fortune together hath frowned  
I stick in the Horn, where I still may be found.   

My Father gave me all his freehold Land,  
And then at my Courtesy he would stand,  
O then thought I, thy Silver shan't rust,  
I'll make it to fly like the Summer's Dust:  
Then did I keep my Prancing Naggs,  
Till I had emptied his Golden Bags,  
My Silks flourished like to a Navy of Flags,  
But now they are worn and torn to Rags.   

I Mortgaged and sold, and I spent so fast,  
The Miser my father was vert at last,  
To think that I squandered away such sums,  
He scratched his ears, and he knawed his thumbs,  
His whole Estate was quite decayed,  
By those vile Projects which I have played,  
Thus I have quite ruined the Usurer's trade,  
And I in the Horn am a sorrowful Blade.   

Now here an Example I must remain,  
My freedom I never expect again,  
Young Gallants be warned, such ruin shun,  
Which has both my father and I undone:  
All comforts now from us are flown,  
My Father in Bedlam makes his moan,  
And I in the Counter a Prisoner thrown,  
This Horn is a Figure by which it is known.   
FINIS.