Smiling years, that gayly run
Round the Zodiack with the sun,
Tell, if ever you have seen
Realms so quiet and serene.
BRITAIN's sons no longer now
Hurl the bar, or twang the bow,
Nor of crimson combat think,
But securely smoke and drink.

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Little tube of mighty pow'r,
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my warm desire,
Lip of wax, and eye of fire :

* This imitation was fupplyed, and tbe plan suggested, by dr. John Hardley. See abp. Herrings " Letters to W. Duncombe, esg." p. 33.

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And thy snowy taper waist,
With my finger gently brac'd ;
And thy pretty swelling creit,
With my little stopper prest,
And the sweetest bliss of blisses,
Breathing from thy balmy kisses.
Happy thrice, and thrice agen,
Happiest he of happy men ;
Who when agen the night returns,



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.

burns ;



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O Thoa, matur’d by glad Hesperian suns,
TOBACCO, fountain pure of a limpid truth,

a Poem on Liberty, ver. 12.


That looks the very foul; whence pouring thought
Swarms all the mind; abforpt is yellow care,
And at each puf imagination bures:

Flash on thy bard, and with exalting fires,
Touch the mysterious lip, that chaunts thy praise
In strains to mortal fons of earth unknown.
Behold an engine, wrought from tawny mines
Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue form'd,
And glaz'd magnifick o'cr, I grasp, I fill.
From : Petotheke with pungent pow'rs perfum’d,
Itself one tortoise all, where Mines imbib'd,
Each parent ray; then rudely ram'd illume,
With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet, 15

Mark'd with Gibsonian lorer forth issue clouds, Thought-thrilling, thirst-inciting clouds around, And many-mining fires: I all the while, Lolling at ease, & inbale the breezy balm. But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join 26 In genial strife and orthodoxal ale, b Stream life and joy into the Muses bowl, Oh be thou still my great inspirer, thou My Mufe; oh fan with me thy zephyrs boon, While I, in clouded tabernacle Ihrin'd, 25 Burst forth all oracle and mystick fong.

c Ibid. ver. 104.

d A b Poem on Liberty, ver. 16.

c Poem on Liberty, ver. poetical word for a tobacco box. f Ibid. ver. 247. & Ibid. ver. 300.

À Ibid. 243. 245 ver. 171,

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-Bullatis mihi nugis,
Pagina turgejčat, dare pondus idonea fumo. Pers.

Criticks avaunt; Tobacco is my theme;
'Tremble like hornets at the blafting fteam.
And you, court-insects, flatter not too near
Its light, nor buzz within the scorching sphere.
Pollio, with flame like thine, my verse inspire, 5
So shall the Mule from smoke elicit fire.
Coxcombs prefer the tickling sting of snuff ;
Yut all their claim to wisdom is-a puff :
Lord Fopi in smokes not-for his teeth afraid :
Sir Tawdry smokes not - for he wears brocade. 10
Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to swoon;
They love no smoke, except the smoke of town:
But courtiers hate the pulông tribe,-no matter,
Strange if they love the breath that cannot flatter!
Its foes but shew their ignorance ; can he 15
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 (vegods!) but the will drink: 20


And chaste PRUDELLA (blame her if you can) Says, pipes are us’d by that vile creature Man: Yet crouds remain, who still its worth proclaim, While some for pleasure, smoke and some for fame: Fame, of our actions universal spring,

25 For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke,-ev'ry thing.



Solis ad ortus
Vanescit fumus.


Blest leaf! whose aromatick gales dispense
To templars modesty, to parsons sense :
So raptur'd priests, at fam'd DODONA's shrine,
Drank inspiration from the steam divine.
Poison that cures, a vapour that affords 5
Content, more folid than the smile of lords :
Reft to the weary, to the hungry food,
The last kind refuge of the Wise and Good.
Inspird hy 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 less the critick owns thy genial aid,
While supperless he plics the piddling trade.


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