_Motteux_ had one very untow'rd, And thought to mend it with a Cord, But _kill'd the Tree_, yet gain'd his _End_, Which makes th' Experiment condemn'd. Others have thought to mend the Root, By taking from the Tree its Fruit; But in the _Nutmegs_ lies the Breed, And when they're gone we lose the _Seed_; Tho' Virtuosi still have don't, And always found it yield Accompt; For _Hey----gg----r_ then buys the _Wood_, And of it makes us Whistles good, Which yearly from _Italia_ sent, Here answers his and our Intent. Others too curious will _innoc_ _Ulate_ their Plants on _Medlars_ Stock, (_i.e._ as Tongues in Vulgar pass, They graft it on an _Open-arse_;) But Gardeners, Virtuosi, all, Say this is most _unnatural_. That Soil is certainly the best, Whence first it sprang, and first increast, In Vallies hollow, soft, and warm, With Hills to ward off every Storm, Where Water salt runs trickling down, And _Tendrils_ lie o'er all the Ground, Such as the Tree itself shoots forth, And better if't be tow'rds the _North_; When such a Piece of Ground you see, If in the midst a Pit there be, There plant it deep unto the _Root_, And never fear----you'll soon have _Fruit_. Tho' let young _Botanists_ beware Of Insects that oft' harbour there, Which 'mongst the tender _Fibres_ breed, And if not kill'd, eat up the _Seed_: Good _Humphrey Bowen_ gives another, (As each Man should assist his Brother) That is, to take especial Care Not to set _Vulvaria_ near; Of them two Sorts are frequent found, One helps, and to'ther spoils the Ground; And many a Plant thriving and tall, Destroy'd by them, has got a Fall. But _Misan_'s taken this just napping, And _against all Things that can happen_ Both to the Shrub and Tree, has told some How to make the deadliest _Wholesome_; These venomous _Vulvaria_ grow At _Vaux-Hall_ and _St. James's_ too; Nay, and about the Tree so leap, That very few good Plants can 'scape. _The Names and Virtues_ Old Mother _D'Acier_, in her Notes _On Homer_, some hard _Greek_ Word quotes, Calls it _Nep, nep_,--I know not what, And says it is the very Plant that The tawny Queen to _Helen_ sent, To cure her Griefs at all Event. Great _Milton's Murd'rer_ says it is The fam'd _Machaera Herculis_, And proves from some old _Grecian_ Poet, So plain that all Men sure must know it, That of this _Tree_ the Club was made, With which he overcame ('tis said) _Thespius_' Daughters, all grown wild, And _fifty Mad-Women_ made _mild_; Which very Club--(it makes one Laugh) _Omphale_ turn'd into a Distaff. Nay, the _Hesperian_ Tree was this, As shew the _Poma Veneris_; These Apples doubtless were the Fruit That 'twixt the Queens rais'd such Dispute, To make 'em all _stark-naked_ stand, While _Paris_ held it in his Hand, And _chuck'd_ it into _Venus_' Mouth, 'Cause she with Beauty fir'd the Youth.