The Tree.

I Chose the flour'ishingst Tree in all the Park,
With freshest Boughs, and fairest head;
I cut my Love into his gentle Bark▪
And in three days, behold, 'tis dead;
My very written flames so vi'olent be,
They'have burnt and withere'd up the Tree.

How should I live my self, whose Heart is found
Deeply graven every where
With the large History of many a wound,
Larger then thy Trunk can bear?
With art as strange, as Homer in the Nut,
Love in my Heart has Volumes put.

What a few words from thy rich stock did take
The Leaves and Beauties all?
As a strong Poyson with one drop does make
The Nails and Hairs to fall:
Love (I see now) a kind of Witchcraft is,
Or Characters could ne'r do this.

Pardon ye Birds and Nymphs who lov'd this Shade;
And pardon me, thou gentle Tree;
I thought her name would thee have happy made,
And blessed Omens hop'd from Thee;
Notes of my Love, thrive here (said I) and grow;
And with yee let my Love do so.

Alas poor youth, thy love will never thrive!
This blasted Tree Predestines it;
Go tye the dismal Knot (why shouldst thou live?)
And by the Lines thou there hast writ
Deform'dly hanging, the sad Picture be
To that unlucky Historie.