Snuff

A delicate pinch! oh how it tingles upThe titillated nose; and fills the eyesAnd breast, till in one comfortable sneezeThe full collected pleasure bursts at last!Most rare Columbus! thou shalt be for thisThe only Christopher in my Kalendar.Why but for thee the uses of the NoseWere half unknown, and its capacityOf joy. The summer gale that from the heath,At midnoon glittering with the golden furze,Bears its balsamic odour, but provokesNot satisfies the sense; and all the flowers,That with their unsubstantial fragrance temptAnd disappoint, bloom for so short a space,That half the year the Nostrils would keep Lent,But that the kind Tobacconist admitsNo winter in his work; when Nature sleepsHis wheels roll on, and still administerA plenitude of joy, a tangible smell.

What is Peru and those Golcondan minesTo thee Virginia? miserable realmsThey furnish gold for knaves and gems for fools;But thine are common comforts! to omitPipe-panegyric and tobacco praise,Think what the general joy the snuff-box gives,Europe, and far above Pizarro's nameWrite Raleigh in thy records of renown!Him let the school-boy bless if he beholdHis master's box produced, for when he sees.The thumb and finger of AuthorityStufft up the nostrils; when hat, head, and wigShake all; when on the waistcoat black the dustOr drop falls brown; soon shall the brow severeRelax, and from vituperative lipsWords that of birch remind not, sounds of praise,And jokes that must be laugh'd at shall proceed.