THE Tree of which I fain would sing,

If the kind Muse her Aid would bring,

Is Arbor Vitæ; but in brief,

By vulgar Men call'd—Tree of Life.

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.

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.

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 Machæra 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 like this,

Nor can Champaign give such a Bliss:

When Wife and Husband do fall out,

And both remain in sullen pout,

This brings them to themselves again,

And fast unites the broken Chain;

Makes Feuds and Discords straightway cease

And gives at least a Night of Peace.

This Rarity may now be seen

In Lambeth, at a Garden Green,

Bowen his Name, who in high Tone,

Calls it the Tree of Silver Spoon,

Which all the Maids of curious Eyes

May there behold of largest Size.

What various Arts attempts the am'rous Swain,

To force the Fair, or her Consent to gain—

Now Balls, now Masquerades his Care employ,

And Play and Park alternately give Joy—

Industrious H——gg——r, whose magick Brains

Still in their Shell the Recipe retains

Like some good Midwife brings the Plot to light

And helps the lab'ring Swain to Celia's Sight;

For this his Eunuchs in high Buskins tread—

And chaunt harmonious Lays for this,—and Bread;

For this the Assembly's fix'd; and the huge Dome

Swells with the Lady's Vows, when the Stake's gone.—

For this he forms the vicious Masquerade,

Where Damsels may securely drive their Trade,

For which the Salesman, Chandler, Chairmen loudly pray,

And Pickpockets too, hail the joyful Day—

But now what Tongue can praise the mighty Worth,

Who to Ridotto gave an English Birth;

To him let every Templar bend the Knee,

Receive a Ticket, and give up the Fee:

Let Drury-Lane eternal Columns raise,

And every wanton Wife resound his Praise;

Let Courtiers with implicit Faith obey,

And to their grand Procurer Homage pay.

No more shall Duchesses to Bath repair,

Or fly to Tunbridge to procure an Heir;

Spring-Gardens can supply their every Want,

For here whate'er they ask the Swain wil grant,

And future Lords (if they'll confess the right)

Shall owe their Being to this blessed Night;

Hence future Wickedness shall take its Rise,

(For Masquerade to this is paultry Vice)

An Æra of new Crimes shall hence begin,

And H——gg——r chief Devil be of Sin;

No more shall Ugliness be his Disgrace,

His Head mends all the Frailties of his Face;

When Masques and Balls to their Conclusion drew,

To this his last Resort the Hero flew;

So by degrees the Errant Knights of old

To Glory rose, and by Degrees grew bold;

A while content the common Road they trod,

'Till some great Act at last confess the God.

Now Painters work,—and dine, that starv'd before,

And Tallymen supply each needy Whore—

Fam'd Covent-Garden droops with mournful Look,

Nor can St. James's her great Rival brook:

Each Duck and D——ss, quacks to different Tunes,

One claps her Wings for Love, the other swoons;

Each Vintner storms and swears he is undone,

Vollies of Oaths speak loud the Drawer's Moan;

Porter who us'd to search for needful Girls,

Now sucks his Fingers, or his Apron twirls,

Bemoans his Loss of Business, and with Sighs,

In Box imprison'd lays the useless Dice.

Spring-Garden now alone does all invite

The Cit, the Wit, the Rake, the Fool, the Knight:

No Lady, that can pawn her Coat or Gown,

Will rest 'till she has laid the Money down:

Each Clerk will to the Joints his Fingers work,

And Counsellors find out some modern Querk,

To raise the Guinea, and to see the Grot,

And 'mongst the Belles to slant it at Ridolt.

Here Seamstresses and Maids together vie,

And the spruce 'Prentice shines in Sword and Tye:

Bandy'd in Lace the City Dame appears,

Her Hair genteelly frizzled round her Ears;

Her Gown with Tyrian Dyes most richly stain'd,

Glitt'ring with Orient Pearl from Orphans gain'd.

My Lord, to oblige his Spouse, takes Tickets three,

Crys, one's for you my Love, and one for me,

The third dispose as you shall best adjudge,

Shew where you're pleas'd, and where you owe a Grudge:

Madam elate, thinks she'll be kind to Betty,

To hide the Slips she made with Spark i'th' City:

But Stallion Tom, who well knew how to scold,

And by his Mistress's Favour grown too bold,

Swears if he has it not, he will reveal,

And to his Master tell a dismal Tale;

Madam, reluctant, gives him up the Paper;

He at her Folly laughs, and cuts a Caper.

Sylvia, a Lady, kept by twenty Beaux,

Who never yet could brook the Marriage Noose,

By each a Ticket offer'd, scorns 'em all,

In hopes some Fool at last will Victim fall,

And, kindly offer Treat and Ticket too,

Which to her Charms she thinks most justly due;

At last a brisk young Templar full of Fire,

Whom Writs with Money, Wine with Love inspire,

Address'd the Dame, she yeilds his glowing Charms,

And for a Ticket flies into his Arms:

So every dapper Fop and brawny Rake

Will Tickets to their Ladies Presents make;

To Sin, the only certain Dedication,

To every gentle Mistress in the Nation,

From Suburb Whore, to ranting Dame of Fashion;

For none's so niece as to refuse the Suit,

But grasps the Tree tho' 'tis forbidden Fruit.

Near where the Thames in pleasant Windings runs,

Near where the famous Glass-house fiercely burns,

(Which to the Love of poor desponding Swains,

An Emblem terrible, but just retains.)

Near where fam'd Vaux was to have fled,

With lighted Match, soon as he'd done the Deed;

Whence some pretend to say by second Sight,

That it foreshew'd the Fate attends this Night,

'Cause here the Fair will many Matches light.

Spring-Gardens lie shaded with verdant Trees,

That nod their reverend Heads at every Breeze;

Embassadors like Turks hence send Express,

And Ministers of State like Devils dress—

Should some wild Indian see the various Scene,

He'd swear all Nations of the Earth do here convene,

And take for quite reverse this medley Farce,

Think Strumpers Saints, or catstick'd Beau a Mars.

But now the Dancers nimble Feet go round,

And with just Measures beat the passive Ground,

Each one inclines to different Delights—

Musick the Fair, Sweetmeats the Beau invite;

The Templar wisely does his Care enroll,

Pockets the Pheasant, and eats up the Fowls

Nor will return to join the giddy Rout,

'Till he has eat and drank his Guinea out.

Now Dancing fires the Nymph to softer Joys;

The Musick's dull, the Wine and Sweetmeat cloys;

Strephon streight takes the Hint, withdraws a-while,

By soft Endearments does her Grief beguile;

Soon they return more vig'rous than before,

Do what they will, she cannot be a Whore.

For Mahomet may dream of heavenly Stews,

Where Virgin Rose, soon as it's lost, renews,

And shake with every Breath of Air serene,

As trembling for the Rapes they've daily seen;

When if those past can shake their Height profound,

Ridotto sure will fell them to the Ground;

Here Art to Nature join'd makes it compleat,

And Pyramids and Trees together meet;

Statues amidst the thickest Grove arise,

And lofty Columns tow'ring to the Skies;

Then next an Obelisk its Shade displays,

And rustic Rockwork fills each empty Space;

Each joins to make it noble, and excells

Beaufets for Food, Grotto's for something else.

But hark! the Doors on jarring Hinges turn,

All enter in, and the blest Scene's begun;

A thousand Lights their livid Flames display,

Pour forth their Blaze, and form a mimick Day:

Sudden a motley Mixture fills the Place,

And Footmen shine as lordly as his Grace;

To see the sad Effect and Power of Change,

Ladies turn'd Men, in Breeches freely range:

Young smooth-chin'd Beaux turn Priests and Fryars,

And Nun's chaste Habits hide our Country 'Squires.

Belles, Beaux, and Sharpers here together play,

And Wives throw their good Spouses Wealth away;

And when their Cash runs low, and Fate runs cross,

They then Cornute 'em to retrieve their Loss.

Dice and Intrigue so mutually are blended,

That one begins as soon as t'other's ended:

A City Heiress blooming, rich, and fair,

Picks up the Cards and Counters with great Care;

Against her fate a smooth young Baron,

Wit he had none, Beauty he had his share on,

A soft clear Skin, a dapper Neck and Waist,

In all Things suited to the modern Taste;

And most polite, like all our modish Brood,

That is, a very Fool, who's very leud:

He ogles Miss, she squints, and turns aside,

Nor can her Mask her rising Blushes hide;

At last (as Bargains here are quickly made)

She yeilds to be Caress'd, tho' still afraid;

She cries, a private Room's for them most fit,

For Reputation is the Glory of a Cit;

This only is the Place, where in a Trice,

Some Angel steals the Wounds of friendly Vice;

The Nymph finds a Relief for all her Pains,

And the lost Maidenhead's restor'd again.

But who is he in Bower close confin'd,

With a kind Fair t' unbend his troubled Mind,

Sure by his Air, his Beauty, and his Grace,

It Phoebus is, or some of heavenly Race.

A petty Courtier, of small Estate and Sense,

Stood hearkning by, and cry'd it was the P——ce.

Your Pardon, Sir, I knew it not before,

For my Mistake depended on his Whore,

One had Latona to'ther has L——r.

Next to the Grotto let us bend our Eye,

The Grotto, Patron of Iniquity,

Speak O ye Trees with kind refreshing Shade,

How many Whores have at your Roots been made;

Alas; how small the Number to what now,

This one, this happy Night, alone will shew

So many, that each conscious Dryad flees,

Lest she too should be ravish'd thro' the Trees.

Next rattling Dice invite th' attentive Ear,

Lords loudly laugh, as loud the Bullies swear:

The Country Knight o'th' Shire sells his Estate,

And here with Heart intrepid meets his Fate;

So they withdrew to quench their glowing Flame,

And to preserve the Honour of her Name;

For oh! sad Fate as they ascend the Stairs,

At the Room Door her good Mamma appears,

Soon as she spies her Child with Looks demure,

She charges her to keep her Vessel pure:

Miss pertly answers to avoid her Doom,

Mamma, whose Hat and Wig is in the Room?

The good old Dame yeilds at the just Reproach,

Cries—Well my Dear, don't take too much!

Thus various Joys soon waste the fleeting Night,

And Sleep and Lust the Croud to Bed invite;

Some in their Truckle-Beds to snore all Day,

Others in Gambols with their Wh——es to play;

The Dunghill Trapes, trickt up like virtuous Trull,

If by good Chance, she gets a Dupe or Cull;

On Tallyman intrudes twelve Hours more,

And for a clean Shift presumes to run a Score.

Sages may say, that Arts and Science fail,

And Ignorance and Folly have weigh'd down the Scale:

In England they have given new Arts a Rise,

And what in Science wants, increase in Vice,

And to be great as Angels when they fell,

(If not exceed) at least they equal Hell.