Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut down at eve; It shows our decay, we are but clay. Think on this when you smoak Tobacco.
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.
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