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.

_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 bet