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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 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.
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 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.
Citro-
