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RITICS avaunt; Tobacco is my theme; Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam. And you, court-infects, flutter not too near Its light, nor buzz within the scorching sphere. Pollio, with flame like thine my verfe inspire, So fhall the Mufe from smoke elicit fire. Coxcombs prefer the tickling fting of snuff; Yet all their claim to wisdom is—a puff: Lord Foplin smokes not-for his teeth afraid : Sir Tawdry fmokes 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 shew 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—spit.
Citronia vows it has an odious ftink;

She will not fmoke (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 pleasure smoke, and fome for fame :
Fame, of our actions univerfal fpring,
For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke,-ev'ry thing.





LEST leaf! whofe aromatic gales difpenfe
To Templars modefty, to Parfons fenfe:
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 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 statesmen fail.
By thee protected, and thy fifter, Beer,
Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near.
Nor lefs the critic owns thy genial aid,
While fupperless 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 beft,
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 sweet oblivion lulls the land;
Of all, which at Vienna passes,
As ignorant as Brafs is:
And fcorning rafcals to carefs,
Extol the days of good queen Befs,
When firft Tobacco bleft our isle,
Then think of other queens.

and smile.

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

The parfon's pun, the fmutty tale
Of country justice o'er his ale.
I ask not what the French are doing,
Or Spain to compafs Britain's ruin :

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


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