Puslapio vaizdai






Printed in the YEAR 1709.

R. Flowerdale, a Merchant, trading at

M Venice.

Matthew Flowerdale, his Prodigal Son.
Mr. Flowerdale, Brother to the Merchant.


In love

Sir Lancelot Spurcock, of Lewfome in Kent.
Sir Arthur Greenfhood, a Commander,
Oliver, a Cornish Clothier,
Weathercock, a Parafite to Sir Lancelot Spurcock.

Tom Civet, in love with Frances.


with Luce.


Servants to Sir Lancelot Spurcock.

Dick and Ralph, two cheating Gamesters.

Ruffin, a Pander to Miftrefs Apricock a Bawd.

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London Prodigal.


Enter Flowerdale the Merchant, and his Brother.



Rother, from Venice, being thus difguis'd

I come to prove the humours of my Son:
How hath he born himself fince my departure,
I leaving you his Patron and his Guide?
Unc. I'faith, Brother, fo, as you will
grieve to hear,
And I almoft afhamed to report it.

Fath. Why how is't, Brother? What, doth he spend
Beyond the allowance I left him?

Unc. How! beyond that? and far more; why, your Exhibition is nothing, he hath spent that, and fince hath borrow'd, protefted with Oaths, alledged Kindred to wring Mony from me, by the Love I bore his Father, by the Fortunes might fall upon himself, to furnish his Wants: That done, I have had fince his Bond, his Friend and Friends Bond; although I know that he fpends is yours, yet it grieves me to fee the unbridled Wildnefs that reigns over him

Fath. Brother, what is the manner of his Life? how is the Name of his Offences? if they do not relish altogether of Damnation, his Youth may privilege his Wantonness: I my felf ran an unbridled Courfe 'till thirty, nay, almoft 'till forty; well, you fee how I am: For Vice once looked R 4


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into with the Eyes of Difcretion, and well ballanced with the weights of Reason, the Courfe paft, feems fo abominable, that the Landlord of himself, which is the Heart of his Body, will rather intomb himself in the Earth, or feek a new Tenant to remain in him, which once fetled, how much better are they that in their Youth have known all thefe Vices, and left 'em, than thofe that knew little, and in their Age run into 'em? Believe me, Brother, they that die moft Virtuous, have in their Youth liv'd moft Vicious; and none knows the Danger of the Fire more than he that falls into it: But fay, how is the Courfe of his Life? let's hear his Particulars.

Unc. Why I'll tell you, Brother, he is a continual Swearer, and a breaker of his Oaths, which is bad,

Fath. I grant indeed to fwear is bad, but not in keeping those Oaths is better; for who will fet by a bad thing? Nay by my Faith, I hold this rather a Virtue than a Vice. Well, I pray proceed.

Unc. He is a mighty Brawler, and comes commonly by the worst,

Fath. By my Faith this is none of the worst neither, for if he brawl and be beaten for it, it will in time make him fhun it: For what brings a Man or Child, more to. Virtue than Correction? What reigns over him elfe?

Unc. He is a great Drinker, and one that will forget himself. Fath. O beft of all, Vice fhould be forgotten, let him drink on, fo he drink not Churches. Nay, and this be the worst, I hold it rather Happiness in him, than any Iniquity. Hath he any more Attendants?

Unc. Brother, he is one that will borrow of any Man. Fath. Why you fee fo doth the Sea, it borrows of all the fmall Currents in the World to encrease himself. Unc. Ay, but the Sea pays it again, and fo will never your Son.

Fath. No more would the Sea, neither, if it were as dry as my Son.

Unc. Then, Brother, I fee you rather like thefe Vices in your Son, than any way condemn them.

Fath. Nay miftake me not, Brother, for though I flur them over now, as things flight and nothing, his Crimes being in the Bud, it would gall my Heart, they fhould ever reign in him.


Flow. Ho? who's within ho?

[Flowerdale knocks within.

Unc. That's your Son, he is come to borrow more Mony.
Fath. For God's fake give it out I am dead,

See how he'll take it.

Say I have brought you News from his Father.

I have here drawn a formal Will, as it were from my felf,

Which I'll deliver him.

Unc. Go to, Brother, no more: I will.

Flow. Uncle, where are you, Uncle?

Unc. Let my Coufin in there.


Fath. I am a Sailor come from Venice, and my Name is Chriftopher.

Enter Flowerdale.

Flow. By the Lord, in truth, Uncle.

Unc. In truth would a ferv'd, Coufin, without the


Flow. By your leave, Uncle, the Lord is the Lord of Truth. A couple of Rafcals at the Gate, fet upon me for

my Purfe.

Unc. You never come, but you bring a brawl in your Mouth.

Flow. By my Truth, Uncle, you must needs lend me

ten Pound.

Unc. Give my Coufin fome fmall Beer here.

Flow. Nay look you, you turn it to a Jeft now, by this Light, I fhould ride to Croydon Fair, to meet Sir Lancelot Spurcock, I fhould have his Daughter Luce, and for fcurvy ten Pound, a Man fhall lofe nine hundred threescore and odd Pounds, and a daily Friend befide, by this Hand, Uncle, 'tis true.

Unc. Why, any thing is true for ought I know.

Flow. To fee now; why you fhall have my Bond, Un cle, Tom White's, James Brock's, or Nick Hall's; as good Rapier and Dagger Men, as any be in England; let's be damn'd if we do not pay you, the worft of us all will not damn our felves for ten Pound. A pox of ten Pound.

Unc. Coufin, this is not the first time I have believ'd you.


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