ter 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.

The Virtues are of such great Note,
That twenty Volumes might be wrote;
The Juice alone Green-Sickness cures,
And purges thro' all corporal Pores;
If any Maid be sick, or faint
Of Love, or Father's close Constraint,
One Spoonfull of this Cordial Balm
Soon stops each Grief, and every Qualm;
'Tis true, they sometimes Tumours cause,
And in the Belly make strange Flaws,
But a few Moons will make 'em sound,
And safely fetch the Swelling down.

Not Saffron chears the Heart