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Hees forc't to trot with fardle at his backe,
From house to house, demaunding if they lacke
A poore yong man that's willing to take paine,
And mickle labour, though for little gaine.
Well, some kind Troyan thinking he hath grace,
Keepes him himselfe or gets some other place.
The world now God be thanked 's wel amended,
Want that erewhile did want, is well befrended,
And scraping Cron hath got a world of welth,
Now what of that, Cron's dead, wher's al his pelf?
Bequeathed to yong prodigall: Thats well,
His God hath left him, and he's fled to hell:
See goulden toules, the end of ill got gaine,
Reade and marke well, to do the like refraine.
This youthful gallant like the prince of pleasure,
Floting on golden seas of earthly treasure,
Treasure ill got by ministring of wrong,
Made a faire show, but endured not long:
Ill got, worse spent, gotten by deceit,
Spent on lasciuious wantons which await