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