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Page 133 - Sir, believe me, upon my relation for what I tell you, the world shall not reprove. I have been in the Indies, where this herb grows, where neither myself, nor a dozen gentlemen more of my knowledge, have received the taste of any other nutriment in the world, for the space of one and twenty weeks, but the fume of this simple only: therefore, it cannot be, but 'tis most divine.
Page 132 - Tobacco, divine, rare, superexcellent tobacco, which goes far beyond all the panaceas, potable gold, and philosopher's stones, a sovereign remedy to all diseases. A good vomit, I confess, a virtuous herb, if it be well qualified, opportunely taken, and medicinally used ; but as it is commonly abused by most men, which take it as tinkers do ale, 'tis a plague, a mischief, a violent purger of goods, lands, health; hellish, devilish and damned tobacco, the ruin and overthrow of body and soul.
Page 62 - In bed we laugh, in bed we cry, And born in bed, in bed we die; The near approach a bed may show Of human bliss to human woe.
Page 134 - Only thus much; by Hercules, I do hold it, and will affirm it before any prince in Europe, to be the most sovereign and precious weed that ever the earth tendered to the use of man.
Page 135 - A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke ; And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke.
Page 133 - Further, take it in the nature, in the true kind: so, it makes an antidote, that had you taken the most deadly poisonous plant in all Italy, it should expel it, and clarify you, with as much ease as I speak. And for your green wound, your Balsamum, and your St. John's wort are all mere gulleries and trash to it, especially your Trinidado. Your Nicotian is good too.
Page 141 - In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.
Page 48 - Hark! that's the nightingale, Telling the self-same tale Her song told when this ancient earth was young: So echoes answered when her song was sung In the first wooded vale. We call it love and pain, The passion of her strain; And yet we little understand or know.
Page 10 - I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, Albeit all human history attests That happiness for man — the hungry sinner! — Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.