The prodigal son converted, or The young-man return'd from his rambles : Wit ne're till now, was cry'd about the street, at the low rate o[f] a poor penny sheet; sharp times will make sharp wits, not fear sharp tongues, 'tis we who money want which suffer wrongs; you can't command a poet with a frown to write new songs: but yours, for a crown: here's that will please you sure, and much befriend ye. You'll thank the author, if the devil be n't in ye. To a pleasant new play-house tune call'd The delight of the bottle, &c.