How bend and curl the moist-top to the spouse,
And give and take the vegetable vows;
How those esteem’d of old but tips and chives,
Are tender husbands and obedient wives;
Who live and love within the sacred bower, —
That bridal bed, the vulgar term a flower. 
Hear Peter proudly, to some humble friend,
A wondrous secret, in his science, lend:  —
“Would you advance the nuptial hour and bring
The fruit of Autumn with the flowers of Spring;
View that light frame where Cucumis lies spread,
And trace the husbands in their golden bed,
Three powder’d Anthers;—­then no more delay,
But to the stigma’s tip their dust convey;
Then by thyself, from prying glance secure,
Twirl the full tip and make your purpose sure;
A long-abiding race the deed shall pay,
Nor one unblest abortion pine away.” 
T’admire their Mend’s discourse our swains agree,
And call it science and philosophy. 
“’Tis good, ‘tis pleasant, through th’ advancing year,
To see unnumbered growing forms appear;
What leafy-life from Earth’s broad bosom rise! 
What insect myriads seek the summer skies! 
What scaly tribes in every streamlet move;
What plumy people sing in every grove! 
All with the year awaked to life, delight, and love. 
Then names are good; for how, without their aid,
Is knowledge, gain’d by man, to man convey’d? 
But from that source shall all our pleasures flow? 
Shall all our knowledge be those names to know? 
Then he, with memory blest, shall bear away
The palm from Grew, and Middleton, and Ray: 
No! let us rather seek, in grove and field,
What food for wonder, what for use they yield;
Some just remark from Nature’s people bring,
And some new source of homage for her King. 
Pride lives with all; strange names our rustics give
To helpless infants, that their own may live;
Pleased to be known, they’ll some attention claim,
And find some by-way to the house of fame. 
The straightest furrow lifts the ploughman’s art,
The hat he gained has warmth for head and heart;
The bowl that beats the greater number down
Of tottering nine-pins, gives to fame the clown;
Or, foil’d in these, he opes his ample jaws,
And lets a frog leap down, to gain applause;
Or grins for hours, or tipples for a week,
Or challenges a well-pinch’d pig to squeak: 
Some idle deed, some child’s preposterous name,
Shall make him known, and give his folly fame. 
To name an infant meet our village sires,
Assembled all as such event requires;
Frequent and full, the rural sages sate,
And speakers many urged the long debate, —
Some harden’d knaves, who roved the country round,
Had left a babe within the parish bound. —
First, of the fact they question’d—­“Was it true?”
The child was brought—­“What then remained to do?”
“Was’t dead or living?” This was fairly proved, —
’Twas pinched, it roar’d, and every doubt