User: Can you write me a poem about arbor vitae and tree?
Assistant: Sure, here's a poem about arbor vitae and tree:
  _RES est severa Voluptas_.
_Is the hearty Wishes of Your's_,
The Tree of which I fain would sing,
If the kind Muse her Aid would bring,
Is _Arbor Vitae_; 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;
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.
_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 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
_Bowen_ his Name, who in high Tone,
Which all the Maids of curious Eyes
May there behold of _largest_ Size.
Its fruits, contrary to most others, grow near the Root; they are
In the latter season they are subject to become weak and flaccid,
universally condemn'd, as a dangerous experiment.
Another caution, no less useful, we have from that excellent and
judicious Botanist Mr. _Humphrey Bowen_, to beware of a poisonous
celebrated gardens at _Vaux-hall_ over the water.
_The_ NAMES _and_ VIRTUES.
THE Ridotto al' Fresco, A POEM.
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 Aera of new Crimes shall hence begin,
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,
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
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,
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,
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;
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,
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,
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,
Next to the _Grotto_ let us bend our Eye,
Speak O ye Trees with kind refreshing Shade,
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_.