Stinking’st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite―― Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you. ’Twas but in a sort I blamed thee, None e’er prosper’d who defamed thee: Irony all and feign’d abuse, Such as perplex’d lovers use At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her Cockatrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that’s evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor. Monkey, Ape, and twenty more: Friendly Traitress, Loving Foe,―― Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not. Or as men, constrain’d to part, With what’s nearest to their heart, While their sorrow’s at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Guiltless of the sad divorce. For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, Tobacco, I, Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she who once hath been A king’s consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any tittle of her state Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain: And a seat, too, ’mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarr’d the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour’s wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight An unconquer’d Canaanite. CHARLES LAMB. ―――― LORD BYRON ON TOBACCO.