(_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.