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 may 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 constrained 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 oppose 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 title 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 debarred the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch, Some collateral sweets, and snatch, Sidelong odors, that give life Like glances from a neighbor's wife; And still live in the by-places, And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquered Canaanite." Thomas Jones, in the following neat little tribute to tobacco, pays a deserved compliment, not only to the plant, but to the great English smoker, "ye renowned Sir Walter Raleigh." "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 hallow'd touch Earth's yielding breast, Forth sprang the plant, and then was bless'd, As man's chief treasure! "Throughout the world who knows thee not? Of palace and of lowly cot The universal guest; The friend of Gentile, Turk and Jew, To all a stay--to none untrue, The balm that can our ills subdue, And soothe us into rest.