A Pipe of Tobacco/IV
Critics avaunt! Tobacco is my Theme;
Tremble like Hornets at the blasting 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 Stink 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 swoon;
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 show 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 chaste 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.