One of the damned crew that lives by drinke,
And by Tobacco’s stillified stink,
Met with a Country man that dwelt at Hull:
Thought he this pesant’s fit to be my Gull.
His first salute like to the French-mans wipe,
Wordes of encounter, please you take a pipe?
The Countrie man amazed at this rabble,
Knewe not his minde yet would be conformable.
Well, in a petty Ale-house they ensconce
His Gull must learne to drinke Tobacco once.
Indeede his purpose was to make a jest,
How with Tobacco he the peasant drest.
Hee takes a whiffe, with arte into his head,
The other standeth still astonished.
Till all his sences he doth backe revoake,
Sees it ascend much like Saint Katherins smoake.
But this indeede made him the more admire,
He saw the smoke: thought he his head’s a fier,
And to increase his feare he thought poore soule,
His scarlet nose had been a firie cole.
Which circled round with smoak, seemed to him
Like to some rotten brand that burneth dim.
But to shew wisdome in a desperat case,
He threw a Can of beere into his face,
And like a man some furie did inspire,
Ran out of doores for helpe to quench the fire.
The Ruffin throwes away his Trinidado,
Out comes huge oathes and then his short poynado,
But then the Beere so troubled his eyes,
The countrieman was gone ere he could rise,
A fier to drie him, he doth now require,
Rather than water for to quench his fire.