The Echo, Song CXII

Behold this fair goblet—'twas carv'd from the tree, Which, oh! my sweet Shakespeare, was planted by thee: As a relick I kiss it, and bow at thy shrine, What comes from thy hand must be ever divine, I shall yield to the mulberry tree: Bad to thee, Bless'd mulberry! Matchiefs was he That planted thee, And thou like him immortal shall be.

Ye trees of the forest, so rampart and high, Who spread round your 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, &c.

The oak is held royal, in Britain's great boast. Preserv'd once, our king, and will always our coast; Of the, Sir, we make ships—there are thousands that fight, But one, only one, like our Shakespeare can write. All shall yield, &c.

Let Venus delight in her gay myrtle bowr's, Pomona in fruit trees, and Flora in flowr's, The garden of Shakespeare all pleasures will suit, With the sweetest of flow'rs, and the fairest of fruit. All shall yield, &c.

With learning and knowledge the well-letter'd birch Supplies law and physic, and grace for the church; But law and the gospel in Shakespeare we find, He gives the best physic for body and mind. All shall yield, &c.

The fame of the patron gives fame to the tree; From him and his merits this takes its degree: Give Phoebus and Bacchus their laurel and vine, The tree of our Shakespeare is still more divine, All shall yield, &c.

As the genius of Shakespeare outshines the bright day, More rapture than wine to the heart can convey; So the tree which he planted, by making his own, Has the laurel and bay, and the vine all in one. All shall yield, &c.

Then each take a relick of this hallow'd tree, From folly and fashion a charm let it be; Let's fill to the planter the cup to the brim, To honor your country, do honor to him. All shall yield, &c.