Now turn thine Eye to view  Groves,
The Pride of the  Isle, from whence,
Sailing the Spaces of the boundless Deep,
To  pretious Fruits arriv'd:
The  burnisht o'er with Gold, the
Of sweetest hony'd Taste, the fair ,
Temper'd, like comliest Nymph, with red and white.
Acres flourish with a Growth
Peculiar, styl'd the : Be thou first
This Apple to transplant; if to the Name
It's Merit answers, no where shalt thou find
A Wine more priz'd, or laudable of Taste.
Nor does the  least deserve thy Care,
Nor , whose wither'd Rind, entrencht
With many a Furrow, aptly represents
Decrepid Age; nor that from  nam'd,
Quick-relishing: Why should we sing the ,
, or , or of pimpled Coat
The , or the  weighty Orb,
Enormous in its Growth; for various Use
Tho' these are meet, tho' after full repast
Are oft requir'd, and crown the rich Desert?