Classic Poem

I Come, a friend to man, I'm ne'er his foe
But when he indiscreetly makes me so.
My name is — — Stop tho' — what am I about?
They that would know my name may find it out.

I'm seen in Summer in the shady grove,
Where pensive speculating maidens rove;
And when the verdure of the forest flies
Before th' Autumnal winds, that blust'ring rise
To waft the yellow fragments o'er the plain,
Firm and unshaken still my leaves remain;
But in the Winter I some covert crave,
Nor dare the rigour of that season brave:
Yet if too near the fire I take my stand,
My rind contracts, and leaves too much expand;
Doctors extract my essence and apply't
To stop disorders, and to give delight;
And some that would my properties define,
Declare I am essentially divine:
Nay some, by arrant superstition taught,
Say I immediately from Heav'n was brought;
But that I am in Heav'n, let none deny,
The Scripture says it, can the Scripture lye?