A Tobacco Pipe

IN these raw mornings, when I'me freezing ripe
What can compare with a Tobacco-pipe?
Prim'd, Cock't, and Toucht 'twould bette heat a man
Than ten Bath-Faggots, or Scotch-warmin Pan
Let others vamp their founder'd Strength an Age
With Porringers of double brew'd Pottage!
And those who thus to charge themselves loath
Break-fast upon a Quart of Barley-broath!
Fire-balls of liquid flame; Death in each drop
Let others guzzle at a Brandy-shop;
Till all their moysture, all their Treasure spent,
They stand, scorcht Scheletons, their own sad Monument!
Where each of these accustom'd Cordials fails,
Let others Bite, and others blow their Nails!
I have an Vniversal Medicine chose,
Which warms, at once, my Gutts, and Hands, and Nose.
Which like the noble Coco-Tree, is good
For Physick, or for Rayment, or for Food:
All you experimental men of Thought,
Who ever Whirligigs to Gresham brought;
Which London with implicit Knowledge sees,
Made up of I's, and O's, and A's, and B's;
Show me one Engine which your Stores enshrine,
That shall Pit, Box, and Gallery with mine?
When your rackt Brains to birth some Embryo bring,
That's oft for nothing Good, but mine for every Thing,
Ungrateful silly man, who makes divine
Those who at first invented Corn and Wine!
Nay he's begodded too whose casual Knocks,
On the Anvil, first found out a Tinderbox.
Ungrateful Man! whose memory slips that Name,
From whom Tobacco pipes Invention came!
But his more bulky worth's too big for fame.
Whose Trump would crack with that vast work alone,
Nor any Pipe can sound his praise besides his own.
His Brother-Glyster-pipe, that do's ascend,
And almost meet half-way at t' other end;
(New method for Impaling!) ne're could do,
That good of one side, which this can of Two:
My Ambodexter either way will go,
Now Struts above, now humbly creeps below;
Above its Virtues, ne're admitted strife,
Below 'tis said that once it sav'd a Life.
For, when One in that speaking Trumpet spoke,
He laugh'd so long till his Imposthume broke:
Up to its proper place we 'll now return't,
(But wipe it first, or if you please, lets burn't!
For the Tooth-ake 'tis a specifick aid,
For every Amorous Boy, or Lovesick Maid:
An hundred Med'cins usd and usd in vain,
By each Old Woman taught to' asswage the pain;
By each Old Woman, who their Vertues try'd,
Forty' year ago, when her third Husband dy'd;
Apply the Pipe! this Instrument will cure,
The Surgeons Fire, or Pincers scarce so sure,
Tho' they the most effectual Method take;
Cut off the Head, I'll warn't no more 'twill Ach,
This gently heals, while Chrystal streams distill,
As from the Mother-Rock some plenteous Rill,
(Tho not, like that, enough to drive a Mill.
Thence Chrstal Streams with gentle murmures flow,
Where little Nimphs may play, for ought we know,
Fine Tod-pole Nymphs soon rotten and soon ripe,
With tapring Tails like Sire Tobacco-pipe;
Like those which Virtuoso Glasses spy,
A thousand times less than a lusty Lowses eye:
Sometimes another way to work 'twill go,
Up spouts a Deluge from the Abyss below;
This Physick is more safe, (tho' not so fine,)
Than Bumpers, crown'd too oft with sprightly Wine:
A Glass is not a better cure than that,
For Care, or Toothach, both of which would kill a Cat;
But if we sad experience credit may,
The Pipe's o'th' Two by far the surer way.
No Brawls, no Wounds, nor Bangs, nor Scars appear,
With such as will discreetly frollick here:
But Wine, confounded Wine one can't miscall,
Wine on a Poets word, 's the Deel and all;
That Fiend, when conjured up, I tell you true,
Even with Tobacco-pipes can murders do.
Wine, that mad Bully, for a painted Drabb,
With these blunt swords e're now has giv'n a Stabb.
When such as use my Pipe but wisely will,
Employ its Aid to cure and not to kill;
Not Bezoar stone, nor that miraculous Horn,
Which decks the strange Invisible Vnicorn:
Can deadly Poysons subtle streams, as well,
As my Tobacco-pipe, when charg'd expell.
The long-livd Harts medicamental Breath,
Gives himself Aid, and the blew Vipe Death;
So, if this Sov'raign Antidote you try,
On Spiders, streight they swell and burst, and Dye;
To what e're luckless Post the Plague advance,
'Twill chase it thence, like Tires of Ordinance:
Tho' all around with bloomy Deaths beset,
Here is the never failing Amulet;
Tho' in the Cart with bloated Corps you lay,
Like the blind-Piper, you might rise, and play:
Fenc't but with this Tobacco-pipe,—
And when long hence you bless the welcome stroke,
Then, when the Pipe is out, your Glass is broke;
The Pipe, the immortal pipe if us'd before,
To after-Years transmit your Glory's o're;
For that can best (as you may quickly prove
Settle the Wit, as Pudding settles Love.
Twill fix your Iudgment, render grave and sage,
And make the Reason overtake the Age:
For this his wondring Servants us'd to lay,
Before a Lord full thirty Pipes a Day;
With this was Herebord acquainted; when
He smoakt, and writ, and spit, and smoakt again.
Poets the Glass with Fancy do's inspire,
The Pipe mounts our Philosopher far higher;
And moulds him Syllogisms, tough, and strong,
And polishes his Labours all along.
Demosthenes his works o'th' Lamp did smell,
His o'th' Tobacco-pipe, and that's as well;
And least he should be idle forc'd to stand,
When for a prop, it askt his Helping hand;
Like such a Scholar, he, with wondrous skill,
Did a fine Hole thro' greasy Beavor drill;
And when the' ngenious Mechanism was done,
Upon that Rest in plants his Gun.
Sure when Prometheus climb'd above the Poles,
Sliely to learn their art of making Souls;
When of his Fire he fretting Iove did wipe,
He stole it thence in a Tobacco-pipe:
Which predispos'd to live, as down he ran,
By the Souls Plastic power from Clay was turn'd to Man,
And what, even now will make it seem more like,
Some sparks remain in't still, if you 'l but strike:
This had, ith' dark the smoaking Drunkard known,
That he'd so much about him of his own;
He never would for the cold Glow-worm grope,
Puffing his Pipe in vain with Fire I hope!
Not only with dull usefulness content,
This Engine too is fit for Ornament:
When wooing Cockny's Locks will curl no more
Than his Good natur'd Fathers horns before;
When Christmass Box with little Wool is big,
And Barber will not trust him for a Wig:
When all means fail, what think ye in the end,
But the Tobacco-pipe must prove his Friend?
On this, till Half-asleep, with pains, and care,
Ten-times as long as at his yawning prayer,
In dainty Frizz he twists his frighted Hair.
Hair, which would make Alecto's Vipers start,
With whose sure Ropes he'l noose his n'own sweet-heart:
Whether she rolls to Hampton in a Boat,
With gaudy-yellow-Tabby-Petticoat;
Or mounting the Exchange, she bridles in
The dainty Dewlaps of her portly Chin;
Still younkers charming, dangling Locks inspire,
Like any Squibb, whole streams of amorous fire;
And the warm wamblings of unnam'd Desire.
Peaceful Tobacco-pipes none ought to scorn,
Which can defend, and not alone adorn;
When unprovok'd 'tis true, They 're soft, and tame,
And only big with calm, with Lambent Flame:
So does the Jolly Cannons cheerly roar,
On bright high-days salute the cluster'd Shore;
But in stearn war spews loads of deadly flame,
As much a Lyon now, as once a Lamb.
So these when with no other weapons sped,
Have many serv'd instead of murdring Lead;
'Twill either lead, or drive, and makes with ease,
Either a Mould, or Bullet, which you please.
When Hercules at old Evanders house,
Reform'd from cutting Throats, to keeping Cows;
Cacus thought it not fair one should have all,
And kindly dragg'd some of his Heard to Stall:
The Heroe swears to find his Victuals stole;
And tracks at last, the subtle Fox to Hole:
Whose charg'd Tobacco-pipe as soon as come,
Smoaks even his Hunter out of house and home;
This was his Sword, and this was his defence,
Frighting poor Hang-dog, Club and all from thence:
Heroick pipe! worthy both Pipes and Tabours!
Thou'rt Cock of Hercules and all his Labours.
And now to relish a long Winters Tale,
O for a Nut-brown Cup of Christmass Ale!
But all the craft's in getting it; 'tis froze,
And drops scarce half so fast as Moyster Nose:
The Pipe to Pot was ever kind and true,
And that or nothing must the business do;
Heat it Red hot and change it for a Tap,
'Twill quickly thro' the Chrystall force a Gap.
Now bring the Boles, drink in your own defence!
For now a new born River bubbles thence;
This ever has the safest Course been found,
To giv't a Glster, when the Hogs-heads bound.
Let stiff Don-Diego load the lowsie Brush,
That hedges in his mouth with snotty Snush:
In vain he the far nobler smoaker mocks,
And in one Knick-knack wears both Pipe and Box,
New fangld London thus perhaps may do,
And ke old Misses, leave old Friends for new:
The West is the Tobacco-pipes chief Throne,
He there like Saxon Monarchs reigns alone:
Wild-Irish-Brats, as soon as Breath they draw,
Are dos'd with a kind Cup of Vsquebagh.
Discretion bids us learn where e're we can,
Since wiser Brutes have often tutor'd Man;
Thus Western Children, tho' not quite so ripe,
As theirs, are wean'd on a Tobacco-pipe:
This does the Sucking Bottles place supply,
'Tis Pap-Meat when They 're hungry, drink when dry;
When hot this cools, this warms when They 're a-cold;
A perfect Kolmacho for Young, and Old;
The Child with ne're a Tooth, and the Old Crone,
Whose two black Stumps check such as say she has nne:
Who, crept thro' fourscore year, with care, and pain,
Has made a shift to grow a Child again.
The Miner there, with an Implicite Faith,
Crediing what his Vpper-neighbour saith;
Who seldom taking pains to Look abroad,
Believes a Sun as he believes a God:
For the Companion of his Hopes and Fears,
Takes a Tobacco-pipe, well struck in years;
Od as himself, lam'd by som Hurles rage,
Short, and repid grown with nameless age,
Still like some Sea-worn Cliff, it lesser grows,
Just matcht at last to his Commodious Nose:
With this, nor was sweet Orpheus arm'd a well'
With Harp, with this he siks almost to Hell.
By some strange chance, from an old plunder'd Vein,
Like Tyrian Pick-axe, brought to Light again:
See where 'tis fall'n among a Ring of Boys,
Who from it blow thin worlds of gaudy Joys.
Fine, soon-ripe Bubbles, Alamode, and Gay,
Dress't in the Glory's of the blooming Day:
Bright as Court-Madam, tho' they hardly be,
Perhaps as tender, or as frail as she;
Created both by Breath, both upwards born,
Proud in the Beautys of the Rainbow Morn:
And thus, when sailing thro' the heavier Skys,
By Breath 'twas made and liv'd, by Breath it dyes;
And that same Blast on which it self it rears,
Dasnes the airy Iewell into Tears.
A Wondrous turn! my pipe at last (You see!)
Is Pulpit grown, and preaches Vanity;
'Tis sign he's sick—Rogues at the fatal day,
Thus curses use to' unlearn, and learn to pray:
Then from some careless Boys's loose hand he flyes,
And tumbles down, and Breaks his Neck, and dyes.