First for Description then, 'tis such As needs must captivate you much. In Stem most streight, of lovely Size, With Head elate this Plant doth rise; First bare--when it doth further shoot, _A Tuft of Moss_ keeps warm the Root: No _Lapland_ Muff has such a Fur, No Skin so soft has any Cur; This touch'd, alone the Heart can move, Which Ladies more than Lap-dogs love; From this erect springs up the Stalk, No Power can stop, or ought can baulk; On Top an _Apex_ crowns the Tree, As all Mankind may plainly see; So shines a Filbeard, when the Shell, Half gone, displays the _ruby Peel_ Or like a Cherry bright and gay, Just red'ning in the Month of _May_. As other Trees bear Fruit at Top, And they who rob 'em must _climb up_; This still more rare doth upward shoot, But at the Bottom bears its Fruit, And they who'd reap its Virtues strong, Need but to lay 'em _all along_, _Ope' wide, their Mouths_, and they'll receive The _Fruit of Life_, and eat, and live: Not the fair Tree that _India_ bears, All over Spice both Head and Ears, Can boast more Gifts than the Great Pow'rs Have granted to this Tree of ours: That in good Ale its Power boasts, And ours has _Nutmeg's_ fit for _Toasts_ And Bags by _Nature_ planted grow, To keep 'em from all Winds that blow. The Rise is slow, and by Degrees, Both Fruits and Tree itself increase So slow, that ten Years scarce produce _Six Inches_ good and fit for Use; But fifteen ripen well the Fruit, And add a _viscous Balm_ into't; Then rub'd, drops Tears as if 'twas greiv'd, Which by a neighbouring Shrub's receiv'd; As Men set Tubs to catch the Rain, So does this Shrub _its Juice_ retain, Which 'cause it wears a colour'd Robe, Is justly call'd the _flow'ring Shrub_. In every Nation springs this Tree, In some confin'd; in others more free; In _England_, 'tis of mod'rate Size, And oft' does _nine full inches_ rise: But _Ireland_, tho' in Soil most poor, Exceeds all Lands in this fame Store; And sent o'er hither, it is such As does exceed our own by much, And gets the Owner many a _Farthing_, For _Ladies_ love it in their _Garden_. That it's a _Tree_ right _sensitive_, Denies no honest Man alive: Tho' as one _shrinks_ and will not stand, This _rises_ at a _Lady's_ Hand, And grows more strong the more 'tis strok'd, As others _fall_ when they are _pok'd_. When nipping Cold bites off our Nose, And hoary Frosts the Morn disclose, In _Hot-beds_ only then 'twill live, And only when-well warm'd will thrive; But when warm Summer does appear, 'Twill _stand_ all _brunts_ in open Air; Tho' oft they're overcome with Heat, And sink with Nurture too replete; Then _Birchen Twigs_, if right apply'd To Back, Fore-part, or either Side---- Support a while, _and keep it up_, Tho' soon again the Plant will droop.