The Indian weed, withered quite, <br />Green at noon, cut down at night, <br />Shows thy decay; all flesh is hay, <br />Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco. <br /> <br />The pipe that is so lily-white, <br />Shows thee to be a mortal wight; <br />And even such, gone with a touch, <br />Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco. <br /> <br />And when the smoke ascends on high, <br />Thinke thou beholdest the vanity <br />Of worldly stuffe, gone with a puffe, <br />Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco. <br /> <br />And when the pipe grows foul within, <br />Think on thy soule defil'd with sin, <br />And then the fire it doth require. <br />Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco. <br /> <br />The ashes that are left behind, <br />May serve to put thee still in mind, <br />That unto dust return thou must. <br />Thus thinke, then drinke tobacco.<br /><br />George Wither<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tobacco-3/
