And when the pipe grows foul within,
  Think on thy soul defiled with sin;
        For then the fire
        It doth require: 
  Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

  And seest the ashes cast away,
  Then to thyself thou mayest say,
        That to the dust
        Return thou must: 
  Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

PART II.

  Was this small plant for thee cut down? 
  So was the Plant of Great Renown,
        Which Mercy sends
        For nobler ends: 
  Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

  Does juice medicinal proceed
  From such a naughty foreign weed? 
        Then what’s the power
        Of Jesse’s Flower? 
  Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

  The promise, like the pipe, inlays,
  And by the mouth of faith conveys
        What virtue flows
        From Sharon’s Rose: 
  Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

  In vain the unlighted pipe you blow;
  Your pains in outward means are so,
        ’Till heavenly fire
        Your heart inspire: 
  Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

  The smoke, like burning incense, towers: 
  So should a praying heart of yours,
        With ardent cries,
        Surmount the skies: 
  Thus think, and smoke tobacco.

TOBACCO IS AN INDIAN WEED.

  Tobacco’s but an Indian weed,
  Grows green at morn, cut down at eve;
  It shows decay; we are but clay;
  Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

  The pipe that is so lily white,
  Wherein so many take delight,
  Is broke with a touch,—­man’s life is such;
  Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

  The pipe that is so foul within
  Shows how man’s soul is stained with sin,
  And then the fire it doth require;
  Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

  The ashes that are left behind
  Do serve to put us all in mind
  That unto dust return we must;
  Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

  The smoke that does so high ascend
  Shews us man’s life must have an end;
  The vapor’s gone,—­man’s life is done;
  Think of this when you smoke tobacco.

From “Pills to Purge Melancholy.”

TOBACCO.

  Let poets rhyme of what they will,
  Youth, Beauty, Love, or Glory, still
        My theme shall be Tobacco! 
  Hail, weed, eclipsing every flow’r,
  Of thee I fain would make my bow’r,
  When fortune frowns, or tempests low’r,
        Mild comforter of woe!

  They say in truth an angel’s foot
  First brought to life thy precious root,
        The source of every pleasure! 
  Descending from the skies he press’d
  With hallowed touch Earth’s yielding breast;
  Forth sprang the plant, and then was bless’d,
        As man’s chief treasure!