Classic Poem

My Figg Tree

The thankfull Soyle manurd and winter-drest
Returnes the Hind an Automn interest
For all his care and labour: nor denies
To be uncloathd to deck His graneries
Soe doth the youthfull vine those prunings owne
When as her blossoms are to Clusters grown
Nor (to shew thankes) doth spare her blood to spill
That soe the planters vessells she may fill
This vegitable lecture may indeed
Cast a blush ore me whose return for seed
Soe farr comes short as not for every one
To bring an ear but for a whol seed-time none
Noe not that corn again was left in trust
And harrowed up under my barren dust
But Nature doth in pregnancy soe raigne
That with wild oats she Choakes the truer graine
And wher my gratefull hart should die my press
It's all besmeared with unthankfullnes
Nor can a thought, a word, or act proceed
Out of my Clay that turnes not strait to weed
And before my frutes ripenes is begun
Abortive like its witherd in the sun
Of self conceipt: Lord prune again this vine
And plough this ground least th'figtrees doom be mine.