I know not why the  delights the Glade
With Boughs extended, and a rounder Shade;
Whilst tow'ring  in  forms arise,
And with a pointed Spear divide the Skies:
Nor why again the changing  should shed
The Yearly Honour of his stately Head;
Whilst the distinguish'd  is ever seen,
Unchang'd his Branch, and permanent his Green.
Wanting the Sun why does the  fade?
Why does the  flourish in the Shade?
The  and  why love they to remain
In middle Station, and an even Plain;
While in the lower Marsh the  is found;
And while the Hill with  is crown'd?
Why does one Climate, and one Soil endue
The blushing  with a crimson Hue;
Yet leave the  pale, and tinge the  blue?
Why does the fond  love to shoot
A various Colour from one Parent Root;
While the fantastic  strives to break
In two-fold Beauty, and a parted Streak?
The twining , and the blushing ,
With lavish Grace their Morning Scents disclose:
The smelling  and  declare,
The stronger Impulse of an Evening Air.
Whence has the Tree (resolve me) or the Flow'r
A various Instinct, or a diff'rent Pow'r?
Why should one Earth, one Clime, one Stream, one Breath
Raise This to Strength, and sicken That to Death?