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,