Yet the sweet simple, by misordered use,
  Death or some dangerous sickness may produce. 
  Should we not for our sustentation eat
  Because a surfeit comes from too much meat? 
  So our fair plant—­that doth as needful stand
  As heaven, or fire, or air, or sea, or land;
  As moon, or stars that rule the gloomy night,
  Or sacred friendship, or the sunny light—­
  Her treasured virtue in herself enrolls,
  And leaves the evil to vainglorious souls. 
  And yet, who dies with this celestial breath
  Shall live immortal in a joyful death. 
  All goods, all pleasures it in one can link—­
  ’Tis physic, clothing, music, meat, and drink.

  Gods would have revell’d at their feasts of mirth
  With this pure distillation of the earth;
  The marrow of the world, star of the West,
  The pearl whereby this lower orb is blest;
  The joy of mortals, umpire of all strife,
  Delight of nature, mithridate of life;
  The daintiest dish of a delicious feast,
  By taking which man differs from a beast.

ANONYMOUS:  Time, James I.

ON A TOBACCO JAR.

  Three hundred years ago or soe,
    One worthy knight and gentlemanne
  Did bring me here, to charm and chere,
    To physical and mental manne. 
  God bless his soule who filled ye bowle,
    And may our blessings find him;
  That he not miss some share of blisse
    Who left soe much behind him.

BERNARD BARKER.

TO THE TOBACCO PIPE.

  Dear piece of fascinating clay! 
  ’Tis thine to smooth life’s rugged way,
  To give a happiness unknown
  To those—­who let a pipe alone;
  Thy tube can best the vapors chase,
  By raising—­others in their place;
  Can give the face staid Wisdom’s air,
  And teach the lips—­to ope with care;
  ’Tis hence thou art the truest friend
  (Where least is said there’s least to mend),
  And he who ventures many a joke
  Had better oft be still and smoke.

  Whatever giddy foplings think,
  Thou giv’st the highest zest to drink. 
  When fragrant clouds thy fumes exhale,
  And hover round the nut-brown ale,
  Who thinks of claret or champagne? 
  E’en burgundy were pour’d in vain.

  ’Tis not in city smoke alone,
  Midst fogs and glooms thy charms are known. 
  With thee, at morn, the rustic swain
  Tracks o’er the snow-besprinkled plain,
  To seek some neighb’ring copse’s side,
  And rob the woodlands of their pride: 
  With thee, companion of his toil,
  His active spirits ne’er recoil;
  Though hard his daily task assign’d,
  He bears it with an equal mind.