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BOOK I.
CYDER.
9
Besmear the Roots; in vain! the nurseling Grove
Seems fair awhile, cherish'd with foster Earth:
But, when the alien Compost is exhaust,
It's native Poverty again prevails.
Tho' this Art fails, despond not; little Pains,
In a due Hour employ'd, great Profit yield.
Th' Industrious, when the Sun in Leo rides,
And darts his sultriest Beams, portending Drought,
Forgets not at the Foot of ev'ry Plant
To sink a circling Trench, and daily pour
A just Supply of alimental Streams,
Exhausted Sap recruiting; else, false Hopes
He cherishes, nor will his Fruit expect
Th' autumnal Season, but, in Summer's Pride,
When other Orchats smile, abortive fail.
Thus
