The Indian weed withered quite
Greene at Morne cut downe at night
Shewes thy decay all flesh is hay;
Thus thinke, then drinke Tobacco.

And when the smoke ascends on high
Thinke thou behouldst the Vanitie
Of worldly stuffe, gone with a puffe;
Thus thinke, then drinke Tobacco.

But when the Pipe growes foule within
Thinke of thy soule defil'd with sinne
And that the fire doth it require;
Thus thinke, then drinke Tobacco.

The Ashes that are left behind
May serve to put thee still in mind
That into dust returne thou must;
Thus thinke, then drinke Tobacco.