University of Virginia Library


122

Epig. 20. To Mr. L. H. Esquire.

You say, (Sir) that you wonder some times I
(Who am a rigid Stoick naturally)
When I do practise mirth, am so profuse,
My mirth is madnesse, and my sport abuse,
I will not (Jove forbid it) say you erre,
But take this Story, The Philosopher
Rich, Learned Proclus, had a Son whose veine
Was to spend money, but get none againe,
On Whores, on Hounds, on Hawkes, his Fathers eyes
Were witnesse to his Prodigallities,
No Counsell he omitted, nor no way,
That might the young mans swerving passions sway;
Nothing proves prevalent, his grieved Syre
Finding he powr'd but oyle into the fire,
Resolv's upon a way, as new as strange,
Not doubting speedily to cause a change:
A very youthfull habit he puts on,
And needs will be Associate to his Sonne,
Who doth his Fathers dotage deadly hate,
And now bethinks him of his owne Estate,

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Condem's himselfe t'have been so much a foole,
Leaves Epicurus, sits in Plato's Schoole.
So Sir, take notice when I sportive am,
I doo't, such Fooles as you for to reclaime.