May never lady press his lips, his proffer’d love returning,
	Who makes a furnace of his mouth, and keeps his chimney burning;
	May each true woman shun his sight, for fear his fumes should choke her,
	And none but those who smoke themselves have kisses for a smoker.

Anonymous.    

	A club there is of smokers—dare you come
	To that close, clouded, hot, narcotic room?
	When, midnight past, the very candles seem
	Dying for air, and give a ghastly gleam;
	When curling fumes in lazy wreaths arise,
	And prosing topers rub their winking eyes.

Crabbe.