Shakespeare's Mulberry-tree

Behold this fair goblet, 'twas carv'd from the tree, Which, O my sweet SHAKESPEARE, was planted by thee; As a relick I kiss it, and bow at the shrine, What comes from thy hand must be ever divine! All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, Bend to thee, Blest Mulberry, Matchless was he Who planted thee, And thou like him immortal be!

Ye trees of the forest, so rampant and high, Who spread round their branches, whose heads sweep the sky, Ye curious exotics, whom taste has brought here, To root out the natives, at prices so dear, All shall yield to the Mulbery-tree, &c, &c.

The Oak is held royal, is Britain's great boast, Preserv'd once our king, and will always our coast; But of Fir we make ships; we have thousands that fight, While One, only One, like our SHAKESPEARE can write, All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c, &c.

Let Venus delight in her gay mirtle bowers, Pomona in fruit trees, and Flora in flowers, The garden of SHAKESPEARE all fancies will suit; With the sweetest of flowers, and fairest of fruit, All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c, &c.

With learning and knowledge the well-letter'd Birch; Supplies Law and Physick, and Grace for the church; But Law and the Gospel in SHAKESPEARE we find, And he gives the best Physick for body and mind. All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c, &c.

The fame of the patron gives fame to the tree, From him and his merits this takes its degree; Let Phoebus and Bacchus their glories resign, Our tree shall surpass both the Laurel and Vine. All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c, &c.

The Genius of SHAKESPEARE out-shines the bright day, More rapture than wine to the heart can convey, So the tree which he planted, by making his own, Has Laurel, and Bays, and the Vine all in one. All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c, &c.

Then each take a relick of this hallow'd tree, From folly and fashion a charm let it be; Fill fill to the planter, the cup to the brim, To honour the country, do honour to him. All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, Bend to thee, Blest Mulberry, Matchless was he Who planted thee, And thou like him immortal be!