What! have I 'scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them?
Tobacco is a traveler, Come from the Indies hither; It passed sea and land Ere it came to my hand, And 'scaped the wind and weather. Tobacco's a musician. And in a pipe delighteth; It descends in a close, Through the organ of the nose, With a relish that inviteth.