Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

I sing of SNUFF, What Pow'r shall I adore?
Or whence shall needy Rhimer Aid implore?
Old Thread-bare Muses now no more will do,
And Sylphs and Sylphids are as much too new.
I'll e'en address, to purpose full as good,
An earthly mortal She, of Flesh and Blood.

O Thou, for whom these Numbers are design'd,
Be ever present to my lab'ring Mind!
Still may I think on Thy severe Command,
T' inspire my tardy Wit, and urge my backward Hand.
So shall thy Smiles as real strength infuse,
As ever Bard receiv'd from Goddess Muse.
My Task perform'd, with grateful Joy I'll own,
That ev'ry single Line proceeds from Thee alone.

The Snuff-box first provokes our just Disdain,
That Rival of the Fan and of the Cane.
Your modern Beaus to richest Shrines intrust
Their worthless Stores of fashionable Dust.
Or wrought or plain, the clouded Shell behold,
The polish'd Silver, or the burnish'd Gold;
The Agate Landskip, drawn by Nature's Hand,
Or finer Pebble from th' Arabian Strand,
The shining Beds where Pearls imperfect lie,
Smooth to the Touch when roughest to the Eye:
While distant Climes their various Arts employ
T' adorn and to compleat the modish Toy.
Hinges with close-wrought Joints from Paris come,
Pictures dear-brought from Venice and from Rome.

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While some with home-made Lids their Fancies please.
And bear enshrin'd their own dear Images:
True to themselves, they need no Foreign Face,
Nature divine can human Art surpass,
And each Italian Paint must yield to Looking-glass.
The lovely Hand is now no longer bare,
The rumpled Neck-cloth to compose with Care,
To fix a falling Patch, or smooth a ruffled Hair:
The never-failing Snuff-box ready stands
To show the well-turn'd Joints, and lilly Hands:
Arm'd at all Points, with this the Beau can move
Envy in Men, and in the Females Love:
Against this Flail the Fair have no Defence,
'Tis Humour, Breeding, Wit, and Eloquence.
A kind Employ the Snuff-box can afford
To Youths that scorn the Pen, and fear the sword
The well-cut Nails are plac'd in open Day,
And wanton on the Lid the taper Fingers play.
Circled with Gold the brilliant Diamond glows,
So fond the Fop its Lustre to expose,
That, like an Indian Prince, he'll wear it at his Nose.

The radiant Box of treasur'd Dust is full,
And richly furnish'd as its Owner's Skull.
A thousand Shapes the Indian Weed disguise,
Veil'd in a thousand Shapes the Weed they prize:
Of barb'rous Names who can recount the Train?
The scented Bergamot, and Spanish plain;
Th' Orangerie with Odour not its own,
Or that from Seville nam'd or Barcelone;

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The greenish Sand which Portugal bestows,
Perfum'd with Urine to regale the Nose:
Far-fetch'd Brazile, almost for Touch too fine,
Which toiling Merchants seek beyond the Line.
Let foolish Indians be no more our scorn,
Who truck their Gold or Gems for Beads or Horn;
The gay Polite of sage Britannia's Land
Will part with Sterling in exchange for Sand.
With what Disdain the Belles would glance askew,
Were Leaf not Powder profer'd to their view!
Tho' still the Thing's the same, the Title only New:
For fav'rite Snuff, disguise it as you will,
In spite of Art remains Tobacco still:
As when a Fair is lur'd to Sin and Shame,
Tho' coach'd or carted, prais'd or damn'd by Fame;
Tho' Miss or Dutchess, lowly-born or great,
With Cinders on her Head, or Coronet;
Down to Nell Gwyn, from Rosamond or Shore,
Whate'er her Title be, in English She's a Whore.

There are who veil their Stinks with utmost Care,
Scents not Arabian breathing from their Hair;
Who conscious of themselves, are frequent known
With Sweat of Civet-Cats to hide their own.
When Sweets and Essence fail, and in their room
Too pow'rful Nature conquers the Perfume,
In self-defence they Stench to Stench oppose,
And guard with Clods of Snuff the suff'ring Nose.
No Smell can pierce thro' that secure Defence,
No, not their own, not Jakes, or Frankincense.

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On Wights like these Nature in vain bestows
The Jessamin, the Jonquil, the Violet, and the Rose;
No more to them, than if alone there grew
The lothesome Garlick and the stinking Rue.
Vain are the Sweets that either Indies bring,
Vain are the blooming Fragrances of Spring.

Strange is the Pow'r of Snuff, whose pungent grains
Can make Fops speak, and furnish Beaus with brains;
Nay, can enchant the Fair to such degree,
Scarce more admir'd could French Romances be,
Scarce Scandal more belov'd, or darling Flattery.
Whether to th' India-house they take their way,
Loiter i' th' Park, or at the Toilet stay,
Whether at Church they shine, or sparkle at the Play.
Nay farther yet, perhaps their Snuff they keep,
Take it in Bed, and dream on't when asleep:
For sure, unless the Beau may claim a part,
Snuff is the topmost Trifle of the Heart.
Nor care of Cleanliness, nor love of Dress,
Can save their Clothes from Brick-dust Nastiness.
Let Work employ the Poor, Snuff the Genteel,
Your well-bred Spinster scorns her Spinning-Wheel;
Let coop'd-up Seamstresses their Fingers ply,
And cloister'd Nuns drudge at Embroidery,
Fatigue for Belles too great! who would as soon
As deign to play the Seamstress, play the Nun.

Some think the part too small of modish Sand,
Which at a niggard Pinch they can command;
Nor can their Fingers for that Task suffice,
Their Nose too greedy, not their Hand to nice;

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To such a height with these is Fashion grown,
They feed their very Nostrils with a Spoon.
One and but one Degree is wanting yet,
To make our senseless Luxury compleat;
Some choice Regale, useless as Snuff, and dear,
Which shall in future Times perchance appear,
To feed the mazy Windings of the Ear.