We nowhere art do so triumphant see,
As when it grafts or buds the tree;
In other things we count it to excel,
If it a docile scholar can appear
To Nature, and but imitate her well:
It over-rules, and is her master here.
It imitates her Maker’s power divine,
And changes her sometimes, and sometimes does refine:
It does, like grace, the fallen-tree restore
To its blest state of Paradise before:
Who would not joy to see his conquering hand
O’er all the vegetable world command,
And the wild giants of the wood receive
What laws he’s pleased to give?
He bids the ill-natured crab produce
The gentler apple’s winy juice,
The golden fruit that worthy is,
Of Galatea’s purple kiss;
He does the savage hawthorn teach
To bear the medlar and the pear;
He bids the rustic plum to rear
A noble trunk, and be a peach.
Even Daphne’s coyness he does mock,
And weds the cherry to her stock,
Though she refused Apollo’s suit,
Even she, that chaste and virgin tree,
Now wonders at herself to see
That she’s a mother made, and blushes in her fruit.