TOBACCO'S BUT AN INDIAN WEED

(attr. to Thomas D'Urfey, c. 1719)


Tobacco's but an Indian weed,
Grows green in the morn, cut down at eve;
It shows our decay,
We are but clay;
	Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The pipe that is so lily white,
Wherein so many take delight,
It's broken with a touch,
Man's life is such;
	Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The pipe that is so foul within,
It shows man's soul is stained with sin;
It doth require
To be purred with fire;
	Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The dust that from the pipe doth fall,
It shows we are nothing but dust at all;
For we came from the dust,
And return we must;
	Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The ashes that are left behind,
Do serve to put us all in mind
That unto dust
Return we must;
	Think of this when you smoke tobacco!

The smoke that does so high ascend,
Shows that man's life must have an end;
The vapour's gone,
Man's life is done;
	Think of this when you smoke tobacco!
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