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Given the vehement anti-cigar climate in American society, I thought it might be interesting to offer Rudyard Kipling's poem about being engaged to somone who didn't like cigars:

The Betrothed
--Rudyard Kipling

"You must choose between me and your cigar."

Open the old cigar box, get me a Cuba
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and
I are out.

We quarreled about Havanas--we fought
o'er a good cheroot,
And I know she is exacting, and she
says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar box--let me consider
a space;
In the soft blue veil of the vapor,
musing on Maggie's face.

Maggie is pretty to look at--Maggie's a
loving lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle,
the truest of loves must pass.

There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm
in a Henry Clay,
But the best cigar in an hour is finished
and thrown away--

Thrown away for another as perfect
and ripe and brown--
But I could not throw away Maggie for
fear o' the talk o' the town!

Maggie, my wife at fifty--grey and
dour and old--
With never another Maggie to purchase
for the love of gold!

And the light of Days that have Been
the dark of the Days that Are,
And Love's torch stinking and stale,
like the butt of a dead cigar--

The butt of a dead cigar you are bound
to keep in your pocket--
With never a new one to light tho it's
charred and black to the socket.

Open the old cigar box--let me consider
a while--
Here is a mild Manilla--there is a wifely

Which is the better portion--bondage
bought with a ring,
Or a harem of dusky beauties fifty tied
in a string?

Counsellors cunning and silent--comforters
true and tried,
And never a one of the fifty to sneer
at a rival bride.

Though in the early morning, solace
in time of woes,
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm
ere my eyelids close.

This will the fifty give me, asking nought
in return,
With only a Sutee's passion--to do their
duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me. When they
are spent and dead,
Five times other fifties shall be my serv-
ants instead.

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles
of the Spanish Main,
When they hear my harem is empty,
Will send me my brides again.

I will take no need to their raiment, nor
food for their mouths withal,
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long
as the showers fall.

I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with
tea will I temper their hides,
And the Moor and the Mormon shall
envy who read of the tale of my brides.

For Maggie has written a letter to give
me my choice between
The wee little whimpering Love and the
great god Nick o' Teen.

And I have been servant of Love for
barely a twelvemonth dear,
But I have been Priest of Partagas a
matter of seven year.

And the gloom of my bachelor days I
flecked with the cherry light.
Of stumps that I burned to Friendship
and Pleasure and Work and Fight.

And I turn my eyes to the future that
Maggie and I must prove,
But the only light on the marshes is the
Will-p'-the-Wisp of Love.

Will it see me safe through my journey,
or leave me bogged in the mire?
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it,
shall I follow the fitful fire?

Open the old cigar box--let me consider
Old friend, and who is Maggie that I
should abandon * you *?

A million surplus Maggies are willing to
bear the yoke;
And a woman is only a woman, but a
good cigar is a Smoke.

Light me another Cuba; I hold to my
first-sworn vows,
If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have
no Maggie for spouse!
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