University of Virginia Library

I sing of snuff! What power shall I adore?
Or whence shall needy rhymer aid implore!
Old threadbare 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 labouring mind!
Still may I think on thy severe command,
To' inspire my tardy wit, and urge my backward hand:
So shall thy smiles as real strength infuse
As ever bard received from goddess Muse.
My task perform'd, with grateful joy I'll own,
That every 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 landscape, drawn by nature's hand,
Or finer pebble from the 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
To adorn and to complete the modish toy.
Hinges with close-wrought joints from Paris come;
Pictures dear-bought from Venice and from Rome;
While some with home-made lids their fancies please,
And bear enshrined their own dear images:
True to themselves they need no foreign face;
Nature divine can human arts surpass,
And each Italian paint must yield to looking-glass.
The lovely hand is now no longer bare
The rumpled neckcloth 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 lily 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 placed 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 treasured 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 barbarous names who can recount the train?
The scented Bergamot, and Spanish plain;
The Orangerie with odour not its own,
Or that from Seville named or Barcelone;
The greenish sand which Portugal bestows,
Perfumed with urine to regale the nose!
Far-fetch'd Brazil, 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, proffer'd to their view!
Though still the thing's the same, the title only new.
For, favourite snuff, disguise it as you will,
In spite of art, remains tobacco still:
As when a fair is lured to sin and shame,
Though coach'd or carted, praised or damn'd by fame;
Though miss or duchess, lowly-born or great,
With cinders on her head, or coronet;
Down to Nell Gwynne, 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 powerful nature conquers the perfume,
In self-defence they stench to stench oppose,
And guard with clods of snuff the suffering nose.
No smell can pierce through that secure defence,
No, not their own, not jakes or frankincense.
On wights like these nature in vain bestows
The jasmine, jonquil, violet, and rose;
No more to them, than if alone there grew
The loathsome garlic and the stinking rue.
Vain are the sweets that either Indies bring;
Vain are the blooming fragrances of srping.
As when the libertine, long used to rove,
Confirm'd in lust, unknowing how to love,
At random takes his undistinguish'd prey,
(Alike at midnight every puss is grey,) [OMITTED]

Strange is the power of snuff, whose pungent grains
Can make fops speak, and furnish beaus with brains;
Nay, can enchant the fair to such degree,
Scarce more admired could French romances be,
Scarce scandal more beloved, or darling flattery;
Whether to the' 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 the 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 too nice:
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 complete;
Some choice regale, useless as snuff, and dear,
Which shall in future times perchance appear,
To feed the mazy windings of the ear.

Let not a father frown, though stars conspire
To make the duteous son forget the sire,
Though what he likes unwittingly I blame,
And seem to slight a parent's sacred name.
Guilty my hands, but passive is my will,
If Fate's commands we mortals must fulfil,—
Fate the resistless cause and just excuse of ill!
If Fate permit, adieu, ill-natured lays!
Still let it be my task, with truth to praise!
Never shall satire more my quill engage,
Let Faction storm, and Moderation rage;
Let patriot Steele, in revolutions read,
Blaspheme the generous hand that gave him bread,
Call Delia “whore,” friends guard, and foes infest
In verse and prose, in earnest and in jest;
The same in every mask, in every state,
Alike ingenuous, and alike ingrate!
Still may my theme be praise, nor e'er again
Let keen invectives point my stabbing pen,
Till parties cease, till Dunton scribbles sense,
Till Tories match the Whigs in diligence,
Till Low-Church Harley love, and Cowper scorn,
Till bold Sacheverell shall a coward turn,
Till Tindal shall the Christian faith embrace,
Till Commonwealth's-men praise the Stuarts' race,
Till Secret Histories from lies are free,
Till Perkin shall in Scotland hated be,
And till De Foe no more deserve the pillory,
Till Sarah bounteous grows, Argyle content,
Till Steele shall learn to blush, and Wharton to repent.