ITTLE tube, of mighty power,
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my warm defire,
Lip of wax, and eye of fire:
And thy fnowy, taper waist,
With my finger gently brac'd;
And thý pretty fwelling creft,
With my little stopper preft,
And the fweeteft blifs of bliffes
Breathing from thy balmy kiffes.
Happy thrice and thrice agen,
Happiest he of happy men,
Who, when again the night returns,
When again the taper burns;
When again the cricket's gay,
(Little cricket, full of play)
Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragrant Indian weed:
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Incense of the god of wine.
Happy thrice and thrice agen,
Happiest he of happy men.
THOU, matur'd by glad Hefperian funs,
Tobacco! fountain pure of limpid truth,
That looks the very foul; whence pouring thought
Swarms all the mind; abforpt is yellow care;
And at each puff imagination burns.
Flash on thy bard, and, with exalting fires,
Touch the mysterious lip that chaunts thy praise,
In ftrains to mortal fons of earth unknown.
Behold an engine, wrought from tauny mines
Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue form'd,
And glaz'd magnific o'er, I grafp, I fill.
From Patotheke with pungent pow'rs perfum'd,
Itself one tortoise all, where shines imbib'd
Each parent ray; then rudely ram'd illume,
With the red touch of zeal-enkindling feet,
Mark'd with Gibfonian lore; forth iffue clouds,
Thought-thrilling, thirft-inciting clouds around,
And many-mining fires: I all the while,
Lolling at ease, inhale the breezy balm.
But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join,
In genial ftrife and orthodoxal ale,
Stream life and joy into the Mufes' bowl.
O be thou still my great infpirer, thou
My Mufe; oh fan me with thy zephyrs boon,
While I, in clouded tabernacle shrin'd,
Burst forth all oracle and mystic song.
RITICS avaunt; Tobacco is my theme;
Tremble like hornets at the blafting team.
And you, court-infects, flutter not too near
Its light, nor buzz within the fcorching sphere.
Pollio, with flame like thine my verfe inspire,
So fhall the Mufe from fmoke elicit fire.
Coxcombs prefer the tickling fting of fnuff;
Yet all their claim to wifdom is—a puff:
Lord Foplin fmokes not-for his teeth afraid :
Sir Tawdry smokes not-for he wears brocade.
Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to fwoon;
They love no fmoke, except the smoke of town:
But courtiers hate the puffing tribe-no matter,
Strange, if they love the breath that cannot flatter!
Its foes but fhew their ignorance; can he
Who fcorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree?
The tainted Templar (more prodigious yet)
Rails at Tobacco, tho' it makes him-fpit.
Citronia vows it has an odious flink;
She will not fmcke (ye gods!)—but she will drink.
And chafte Prudella (blame her if you can)
Says, Pipes are us'd by that vile creature Man :
Yet crowds remain, who ftill its worth proclaim,
While fome for pleafure fmoke, and fome for fame:
Fame, of our a&ions univerfal fpring,
For which we drink, eat, fleep, smoke,-ev'ry thing.
LEST leaf! whofe aromatic gales difpenfe
To Templars modefty, to Parfons fenfe:
So raptur'd priefts, at fam'd Dodona's fhrine,
Drank inspiration from the fteam divine.
Poison that cures, a vapour that affords
Content more folid than the fmile of lords:
Reft to the weary, to the hungry food,
The laft kind refuge of the wife and good:
Infpir'd by thee, dull.cits adjust the scale
Of Europe's peace, when other ftatefmen fail.
By thee protected, and thy fifter, Beer,
Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near.
Nor lefs the critic owns thy genial aid,
While fupperlefs he plies the piddling trade.
What tho' to love and foft delights a foe,
By ladies hated, hated by the beau,
Yet focial freedom, long to courts unknown,
Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own.
Come to thy poet, come with healing wings,
And let me tafte thee unexcis'd by kings.
OY! bring an ounce of Freeman's best,
And bid the vicar be my gueft:
Let all be plac'd in manner due ;
A pot wherein to fpit, or fpue,
And London Journal, and Free-Briton,
Of ufe to light a pipe, or
This village, unmolested yet
By troopers, fhall be my retreat :
Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray;
Who cannot write, or vote for *.
Far from the vermin of the town,
Here let me rather live, my own,
Doze o'er a pipe, whofe vapour bland
In fweet oblivion Iulls the land;
Of all, which at Vienna paffes,
And fcorning rafcals to carefs,
Extol the days of good queen Befs,
When firft Tobacco bleft our isle,
Then think of other queens-
Come jovial pipe, and bring along
Midnight revelry, and fong;
The merry catch, the madrigal,
That echoes fweet in City hall;
|