Who knows not Zodon? Zodon! what is he
The true-born child of insatiety.
If true-born, when? if born at all, say where?
Where conscience begg'd in worst time of the year:
His name young Prodigal, son to greedy Gain,
Let blood by folly in a contrary vein;
For scraping Cron, seeing he needs must die,
Bequeathèd all to prodigality:
The will once prov'd, and he possess'd of all,
Who then so gallant as young Prodigal?
Mounted aloft on flattering fortune's wings,
Where like a nightingale secure he sings,
Floating on seas of scarce prosperity,
Ingirt with pleasure's sweet tranquillity:
Suit upon suit, satin too, too base;
Velvet laid on with gold or silver lace
A mean man doth become; but he must ride
In cloth of finèd gold, and by his side
Two footmen at the least, with choice of steeds,
Attirèd, when he rides, in gorgeous weeds:
Zodon must have his chariot gilded o'er;
And when he triumphs, four bare before
In pure white satin to usher out his way,
To make him glorious on his progress-day:
Vail bonnet he that doth not, passing by,
Admiring on that sun-enriching sky,
Two days encag'd at least in strongest hold:
Storm he that list, he scorns to be controll'd.
What! is it lawful that a mounted beggar
May uncontrollèd thus bear sway and swagger?
A base-born issue of a baser sire,
Bred in a cottage, wandering in the mire,
With nailèd shoes, and whipstaff in his hand,
Who with a hey and ree the beasts command;
And being seven years practis'd in that trade,
At seven years' end by Tom a journey's made
Unto the city of fair Troynovant;
Where, through extremity of need and want,
He's forc'd to trot with fardle at his back
From house to house, demanding if they lack
A poor young man that's willing to take pain
And mickle labour, though for little gain.
Well, some kind Troyan, thinking he hath grace
Keeps him himself, or gets some other place.
The world now, God be thank'd, is well amended;
Want, that erewhile did want, is now befriended;
And scraping Cron hath got a world of wealth:
Now what of that? Cron's dead; where's all his pelf?
Bequeathèd to young Prodigal; that's well:
His god hath left him, and he's fled to hell.
See, golden souls, the end of ill-got gain,
Read and mark well, to do the like refrain.
This youthful gallant, like the prince of pleasure,
Floating on golden seas of earthly treasure,
Treasure ill got by ministering of wrong,
Made a fair show, but endur'd not long;
Ill got, worse spent, gotten by deceit;
Spent on lascivious wantons, which await
And hourly expect such prodigality,
Lust-breathing lechers given to venery:
No day expir'd but Zodon hath his trull,
He hath his tit, and she likewise her gull;
Gull he, trull she: O 'tis a gallant age!
Men may have hackneys of good carriage;
Provided that there rain a golden shower,
Then come whos' will at the appointed hour:
Hour me no hours, hours break no square;
Where gold doth rain, be sure to find them there.
Well, Zodon hath his pleasure, he hath gold;
Young in his golden age, in sin too old.
Now he wants gold, all his treasures done,
He's banishèd the stews, pity finds none;
Rich yesterday in wealth, this day as poor,
To-morrow like to beg from door to door.
See, youthful spendthrifts, all your bravery
Even in a moment turn'd to misery!
The true-born child of insatiety.
If true-born, when? if born at all, say where?
Where conscience begg'd in worst time of the year:
His name young Prodigal, son to greedy Gain,
Let blood by folly in a contrary vein;
For scraping Cron, seeing he needs must die,
Bequeathèd all to prodigality:
The will once prov'd, and he possess'd of all,
Who then so gallant as young Prodigal?
Mounted aloft on flattering fortune's wings,
Where like a nightingale secure he sings,
Floating on seas of scarce prosperity,
Ingirt with pleasure's sweet tranquillity:
Suit upon suit, satin too, too base;
Velvet laid on with gold or silver lace
A mean man doth become; but he must ride
In cloth of finèd gold, and by his side
Two footmen at the least, with choice of steeds,
Attirèd, when he rides, in gorgeous weeds:
Zodon must have his chariot gilded o'er;
And when he triumphs, four bare before
In pure white satin to usher out his way,
To make him glorious on his progress-day:
Vail bonnet he that doth not, passing by,
Admiring on that sun-enriching sky,
Two days encag'd at least in strongest hold:
Storm he that list, he scorns to be controll'd.
What! is it lawful that a mounted beggar
May uncontrollèd thus bear sway and swagger?
A base-born issue of a baser sire,
Bred in a cottage, wandering in the mire,
With nailèd shoes, and whipstaff in his hand,
Who with a hey and ree the beasts command;
And being seven years practis'd in that trade,
At seven years' end by Tom a journey's made
Unto the city of fair Troynovant;
Where, through extremity of need and want,
He's forc'd to trot with fardle at his back
From house to house, demanding if they lack
A poor young man that's willing to take pain
And mickle labour, though for little gain.
Well, some kind Troyan, thinking he hath grace
Keeps him himself, or gets some other place.
The world now, God be thank'd, is well amended;
Want, that erewhile did want, is now befriended;
And scraping Cron hath got a world of wealth:
Now what of that? Cron's dead; where's all his pelf?
Bequeathèd to young Prodigal; that's well:
His god hath left him, and he's fled to hell.
See, golden souls, the end of ill-got gain,
Read and mark well, to do the like refrain.
This youthful gallant, like the prince of pleasure,
Floating on golden seas of earthly treasure,
Treasure ill got by ministering of wrong,
Made a fair show, but endur'd not long;
Ill got, worse spent, gotten by deceit;
Spent on lascivious wantons, which await
And hourly expect such prodigality,
Lust-breathing lechers given to venery:
No day expir'd but Zodon hath his trull,
He hath his tit, and she likewise her gull;
Gull he, trull she: O 'tis a gallant age!
Men may have hackneys of good carriage;
Provided that there rain a golden shower,
Then come whos' will at the appointed hour:
Hour me no hours, hours break no square;
Where gold doth rain, be sure to find them there.
Well, Zodon hath his pleasure, he hath gold;
Young in his golden age, in sin too old.
Now he wants gold, all his treasures done,
He's banishèd the stews, pity finds none;
Rich yesterday in wealth, this day as poor,
To-morrow like to beg from door to door.
See, youthful spendthrifts, all your bravery
Even in a moment turn'd to misery!