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RITICS avaunt; Tobacco is my theme;

Tremble like hornets at the blafting steam. And you, court-insects, flutter not too near Its light, nor buzz within the scorching sphere. Pollio, with flame like thine my verse inspire, So shall the Muse from smoke elicit fire. Coxcombs prefer the tickling sting of snuff ; Yet all their claim to wisdom is a puff : Lord Foplin smokes not-for his teeth afraid : Sir Tawdry smokes not-for he wears brocade. Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to fwoon; They love no smoke, 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 shew their ignorance ; can he Who scorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree? The tainted Templar (more prodigious yet) Rails at Tobacco, tho' it makes him-spit. Citronia vows it has an odious stink; She will not smoke (ye gods!) --but she will drink. And chaite Prudella (blame her if you can) Says, . Pipes are us’d by that vile creature Man: Yet crowds remain, who still its worth proclaim, While some for pleasure smoke, and some for fame : Fame, of our actions universal spring, For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke,--ev'ry thing.






LEST leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense

To Templars modesty, to Parsons sense :
So raptur'd priests, at fam'd Dodona's fhrine,
Drank inspiration from the steam divine.
Poison that cures, a vapour that affords
Content more folid than the smile of lords:
Reft to the weary, to the hungry food,
The last kind refuge of the wife and good :
Inspir'd by thee, dull cits adjust the scale
Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen fail.
By thee protected, and thy filter, Beer,
Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near.
Nor less the critic owns thy genial aid,
While supperless he plies the piddling trade.
What tho' to love and soft delights a foe,
By ladies hated, hated by the beau,
Yet social 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 taste thee unexcis'd by kings.



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OY! bring an ounce of Freeman's beft,

And bid the vicar be my gueft:
Let all be plac'd in manner due ;
A pot wherein to spit, or spue,
And London Journal, and Free-Briton,
Of use to light a pipe, or

养 *

This village, unmolested yet
By troopers, fall 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, whose vapour bland
In sweet oblivion lulls the land ;
Of all, which at Vienna passes,
As ignorant as * * Brass is :
And scorning rascals to carefs,
Extol the days of good queen Bess,
When firft Tobacco blest 'our ifle,
Then think of other queens and smile.

Come jovial pipe, and bring along
Midnight revelry, and song ;
The merry catch, the madrigal,
That echoes sweet in City hall ;

The parson's pun, the smutty tale
Of country justice o'er his ale.
I ak not what the French are doing,
Or Spain to compass Britain's ruin:

Britons, if undone, can go,
Where Tobacco loves to grow.


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