Classic and Contemporary Poetry
TOBACCO, by JOSEPH BEAUMONT First Line: Incroaching weed; had not thine india room Last Line: Be physik, & not diet in abuse. Subject(s): Smoking; Temptation; Tobacco; Pipes; Cigars; Cigarettes | ||||||||
INCROACHING Weed; had not thine India room Ample enough for thy bold leaves, but they Over ye Widest Seas must reach, & come To taint another world? Where they display More Conquest gain'd by their own power alone, Then e'r ye Noble Laurell waited on. Welcome Thou wert at first, & thought to be But tame & honest poyson, which good Art Might mixe into a wholsomenes: but Wee Mistook thy power, whose cheife & mightiest part Doth on ye Soule not on ye Body prey And can heal this, whilst that it doth destroy. Thou growst in India but upon ye ground, In England Thou in Humane Breasts art set. How will our generous Feilds henceforth confound Their Masters basenes! What our Earth would not Vouchsafe to foster, Men receive into Their hearts, & spend their time to make it grow. Wert Thou ye Tree of Life, no greater care Could wait upon Thee: As brave Soules of old Chips of ye reverend Crosse about them wore, So we thy Relicks carefully doe fold And beare them ever with Us, as if Wee Safe under thy Leaves shade could onely be. And art Thou not a vapour full as vain As Man himselfe? O costly smoke, could We But estimate thy Nothing, we might gain A Virtue for our Prodigalitie, And spend in Incense Altars to perfume, What in thy empty stink We now consume. That Embleme which is stamp'd so plain in Thee Might well have frighted Us: A Mouth from whence Stream Fire & Smoak, must needs a Copie be Of Erebus's black Jawes; yet some pretence Or others still we have ye Pipe to fill: Rather then part wth thee wee'l look like Hell. All Virtues have their Charme & Vices too, But no inchantment may compare with Thee: Who ever else without Devoto's goe, Yet still Thy potent Pipe will followd be. Incroaching Weed, which growst upon us thus: First We took Thee, now Thou Takest Us. About in Pounds & Ounces dost Thou goe, By which we doe compute thy price & worth. Was ever Nothing sold by weight till now, Or smoak put in ye Scale? But since thy birth Our subtile Age a difference hath found Between an Ounce of Nothing & a Pound. But stay, I now recant. Poor herb, alas, Tis Wee incroach & Tyrannize on Thee. Thou from thine India ne'r desirdst to passe, But captiv'd wert by our own Luxurie. Who keeps Thee a condemned helplesse Prize, And makes Thee dayly Her burnt Sacrifice. I know thou cheer'st ye Spirits, help'st ye Braine, Repell'st bad Aires, to Students art a Freind, If us'd wth sober Reason: but our vaine Humor prevails; Our Selves & Time We spend We know not why; Such is our Affectation, Our nose must smoak onely to be in fashion. A worthy fashion sure; ye French, they say, Those Universall Fashionmongers scorne This smoakie humor: And why may not They Heer too be our Example? Were We borne To copie all but their Sobrietie? Not France's Followers, but her Apes are Wee. Unhappy Wee! What Sun of Reformation Will chase these swarthy Clowds of smoak away, And cleare our Aire from this black Usurpation, Which robbs Us of our pure & genuine Day! That so this Weed may in its proper use Be Physik, & not Diet in abuse. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ONE LAST DRAW OF THE PIPE by PAUL MULDOON CHANEL NO. 5 by LAURE-ANNE BOSSELAAR OLD MEN ON THE COURTHOUSE LAWN, MURRAY, KENTUCKY by JAMES GALVIN DOWN BY THE CARIB SEA: 2. LOS CIGARILLOS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON Γενεθλιακον by JOSEPH BEAUMONT Γενεθλιακον by JOSEPH BEAUMONT A CONCLUSORIE HUMNE TO THE SAME WEEK; & FOR MY FRIEND by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |
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