1. 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
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2. 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'
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