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Why did you promise love to me,

And not that promise keep?

Why did you swear my eyes were bright,

Yet leave those eyes to weep?

How could you say my face was fair,

And yet that face forsake?

How could you win my virgin heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?

Why did you say my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?

And why did I, young witless maid!
Believe the flattering tale?

That face, alas! no more is fair,

Those lips no longer red:

Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,

And every charm is fled.

The hungry worm my sister is;

This winding-sheet I wear;

And cold and weary lasts our night,

Till that last morn appear.

But, hark! the cock has warn'd me hence;

A long and late adieu!

Come see, false man! how low she lies

Who died for love of you.'

The lark sung loud, the morning smil'd

With beams of rosy red;

Pale William quak'd in every limb,

And raving left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place

Where Margaret's body lay,

And stretch'd him on the green-grass turf

That wrapp'd her breathless clay.'

And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,

And thrice he wept full sore;

Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,

And word spoke never more!




In Imitation of six several Authors.




LD battle-array, big with horror, is fled,


And olive rob'd Peace again lifts up her head. Sing, ye Muses, Tobacco, the blessing of peace; Was ever a nation so blessed as this?


When summer suns grow red with heat,
Tobacco tempers Phœbus' ire;
When wintry storms around us beat,
Tobacco chears with gentle fire.
Yellow Autumn, youthful Spring,
In thy praises jointly sing.


Like Neptune, Cæsar guards Virginian fleets,
Fraught with Tobacco's balmy sweets;
Old Ocean trembles at Britannia's pow'r,
And Boreas is afraid to roar.


Happy mortal, he! who knows
Pleasure which a Pipe bestows;
Curling eddies climb the room,
Wafting round a mild perfume.


Let foreign climes the vine and orange boast,
While wastes of war deform the teeming coast;
Britannia, distant from each hostile sound,
Enjoys a Pipe, with ease and freedom crown'd:
E'en restless Faction finds itself most free;
Or, if a slave, a slave to Liberty.


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


Smiling years, that gayly run Round the zodiac, with the sun, Tell, if ever you have seen Realms so quiet and serene.



ITTLE tube, of mighty power,
Charmer of an idle hour,

Object of my warm desire,
Lip of wax, and eye of fire:
And thy snowy, taper waist,
With my finger gently brac'd;
And thy pretty swelling crest,
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 again the night returns,
When again the taper burns;
When again the cricket's gay,
(Little cricket, full of play)
Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragrant Indian weed:

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Pleasure for a nose divine,

Incense of the god of wine.
Happy thrice and thrice agén,
Happiest he of happy men.


Thou, matur'd by glad Hesperian suns,
Tobacco fountain pure of limpid truth,
That looks the very soul; whence pouring thought
Swarms all the mind; absorpt is yellow care;
And at each puff imagination burns.

Flash on thy bard, and, with exalting fires,
Touch the mysterious lip that chaunts thy praise,
In strains to mortal sons of earth unknown.
Behold an engine, wrought from tauny mines
Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue form'd,
And glaz'd magnific o'er, I grasp. I fill.
From Pætotheke with pungent pow'rs perfum'd,
Itself one tortoise all, where shines imbib'd
Each parent ray; then rudely ramm'd illume,
With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet,
Mark'd with Gibsonian lore; forth issue clouds,
Thought-thrilling, thirst-inciting clouds around,
And many-mining fires: I all the while,
Lolling at ease, inhale the breezy balm.

But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join,
In genial strife and orthodoxal ale,

Stream life and joy into the Muses' bowl.

O be thou still my great inspirer, thou

My Muse; oh fan me with thy zephyrs boon,
While I, in clouded tabernacle shrin'd,
Burst forth all oracle and mystic song.


RITICS 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 sting 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 hin--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.



LEST leaf! whose aromatic 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 Content more solid than the smile of lords:

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