They love no smoke, except the smoke of town.
But courtiers hate the puffing tribe—no matter,
Strange if they love the breath that cannot flatter.
Its foes but show their ignorance, can he
Who scorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree?
Citronia vows it has an odious stink,
She will not smoke, ye gods, but she will drink;
And chaste Prudella—blame her if you can—
Says—pipes are used by that vile creature man.
Yet crowds remain, who still its worth proclaim,