Temperance & various vices > Satyr upon musty-snuff

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Not that he Sells you worſe, or Cheats you leſs,
For, Diteon like, he Sells his T---d by gueſs.
He Bills the Ring with Paſt, to whiten Hands,
And at his Door MUST in large Letters ſtands;
Talks much, and Lyes moil infinitely well,
Concerning Muſty Snuff, and its fine Smell.
The City Fawyns, who always ape the Court,
In Crowds to toying Penkethman's reſort,
And fill their Boxes there with Man's-Dung Snuff,
With which, on Change, their horned Sculls they ſtuff.
Each Coffee-houſe, and little Millen-Whore,
Has Muſty-Snuff ſet up to front their Door ;
And 'cauſe that Chriſtians cannot Cheat enough,
You purchaſe Rotten-Poſt, of Jews, for Snuff,
And let the Circumcized Whores-birds run
With T---—d and Poſt to poyſon Half the Town ;
Becauſe they ſwear, forſooth, that theirs is neat,
And has not yet gone through the Snuff-men's Cheat.
Then ask the latter, Why themſelves don't Uſe it ?
They cry, 'tis conſtant Uſe makes them refuſe it
So Vintners, and Apothecaries tell ye,                 
To avoid the Poyſon that they Sell ye.
Then the damn'd Rogues hold it at ſuch a Price,
That Four-Pound Bohea like, 'tis grown a Vice.
Prate like Old Doyley too, and run it down,
Wiſhing their was not one Pinch left i' th' Town;
Conſtantly ſwear their Stock is almoſt gone.
Save, me six Pounds, cries one, of that fame Pot ;
Others there are that make a fearful rout,
To match their Flavour when that Jarr is out.
When the Sly Toads no ſooner have ſold one,
But out of Cellar they'll produce the ſame.
So, crying Scarcity, they Lull you on,
To make rich Rogues o' the greateſt Dogs in Town;
By crowding Pates (where though there's room to ſpare,)
With Snuff that ſmells like ill infected Air:
Yet in which well-dung'd Soil, Wit's ſeldom ſeen;
Or if it ever is, 'tis very Green.
Our learned Prelates, and Phyſicians too,
Who ought the Smell of Poyſon well to know,
Mod eagerly the Muſty Scent purſue.
For, that 'tis Poyſon, may be plainly ſhewn,
By its purging Thole of Wit that once had ſome.
If then, Good Sirs, you'd Witty be, and well,
Damn but their MUST, and good Plain-Snuff they'll fell.
For 'tis Old Poſt and T---d, and ſuch like Stuff,
With Church-Tard Mould, makes your admired SNUFF.

                        FINIS.