OVID'S WALNUT-TREE transplanted.  
LONDON, Printed for Robert Milbourne 1627.   

TO THE RIGHT WORSHIPFUL his ever honoured Mother the Lady MARIE HATTON.  
THe native soil of this tree is Italy, whereby the hands of the Latin Muses it was planted above sixteen hundred years ago: being of so excellent vigour and durance, that no revolution of time could bring it to decay. It seems the Nymphs of the woods gave to it a special boon of protection against old age, more than they have afforded to the oaks of Havering Park, Which, when I walk among them, seem from their doted tops and empty trunks to say to more, that heart of ak● is no armour of proof against the scythe of Father Time.  
This our tree, standing in open and unfenced ground, I have made bold to seize upon and remove hither: By which transplanting of a stock so grown and conveyed so far, it is no marvel if it now droop in our cold English soil; especially by reason of the unskilfulness of the gardener, Who being but a fresh apprentice to the translating trade, may justly fear that this Latin plant will be thought more rudely battered by his rough English pen, than ever it was by the staffs of Rustic Passengers.  
Thus with presentment of all filial duty, I crave acceptation of you, my dear Mother: in hope that you will vouchsafe to look upon this tree, set in our fields at home, on purpose for your own view: though you are like to find very little fruit upon it worthy your tasting.  
So wishing an happy New year to you; & humbly craving your Motherly blessing, I always rest  
Lambeth this first of januarie, 1624. Your obedient eldest Son, though but a poor planter in this kind, RICHARD HATTON.   

OVID'S WALNUTTREE transplanted.  

I The poor nuttree, joining to the way,  
Offend not any: and yet every day  
By idle travellers, that pass along,  
Each stone or cudgel at my pate is flung.  
thieves lead to hanging oft are stoned, they say,  
When people's fury brooks not laws delay:  
I ne'er offend, unless it seem a crime  
To yield my owner yearly fruit in time.  
But heretofore, when fruit was more respected,  
Good trees were cherished, barren ones rejected:  
Good planters then, when store of fruit was borne,  
Were wont their Gods with garlands to adorn.  
Thy grapes O Bacchus oft thou didst admire,  
Myneruas' olives were admired by her:  
And apples had their mother's limbs down torn,  
If props and shores had not her arms upborne.  
All wives did then by our example bear,  
And in those days all matrons mothers were.  
But when the fruitless sycamores were held  
The best of all the trees dame earth did yield,  
We bearers (if myself I may so call)  
Brought them broad leaves but little fruit at all.  
Our bearing now scarce holds two years together:  
And that which comes is blasted by the weather.  
To bear a child by her that would seem fair,  
Is thought too base: true mothers now are rare.  
If fruitless; then thus hapless were I not  
In wretched mother Clytemuestra's lot.  
If vines knew this, no grapes than would they bring,  
Nor from Minerva's tree would olives spring:  
Tell this but to the pear, or appletree,  
They then will stint, and always barren be:  
The cherry tree, that bears blush-coloured fruit,  
Would be a barren stock, if that she knew't.  
Nor do I envy them, though barren stocks  
Stand fast and are not hurt with any knocks.  
Behold that row of trees stands whole and sound,  
Which nothing bear for which men should the wound.  
But I am hurt, no man my boughs doth spare,  
My bark is slayed, my wood and heart lies bare.  
Hate is no cause of this, but hope of gain:  
Let other trees bear fruit, and they'll complain.  
Half hanged is he, that hath much wealth & ground:  
Who hath no fleece, will scarce be guilty found.  
thieves he may fear, that loaden is with gold,  
An empty purse makes journey safe and bold.  
So am I set upon, because I bring  
Good store of fruit: leaf bearers safely spring.  
Nay and poor shrubs sometime, that neighbour me,  
Are banged and ●orne, as pity is to see.  
Yet to be beaten for, they fruit have none▪  
Ill neighbourhood doth send them many a stone.  
And trust me not, if proof do not it show:  
For other trees stand sound which farther grow.  
If trees were wise and knew where best to root,  
They would be sure to stand hence forty foot.  
Wretch that I am, who thus with loss abused  
Am hatefully for neighbourhood accused.   

But see, my owner's care and bounteous hand,  
Who gives me but the ground in which I stand.  
I without setting spring and grow apace,  
And next the way is oft my homely place.  
The fruitful fields do me so harmful think,  
That I am shouldered out to th'utmost brink:  
My shady branches never pruned hang rude  
And at my root this soil is ne'er renewed.  
Though by the sun I often scorched be,  
there's none with watering that refresheth me.  
But when my nut with ripeness cleanness her hull,  
Then comes the Pole and threats my crown to pull.  
And least of stones I only might complain,  
With staffs my loaden boughs they bruise again.   

My pulp for second course men use to have.  
A thrifty housewife doth my choice nuts save.  
These are the tools of boyes-play, Cockupall,  
Cobnut, and Five holes trundling like a ball:  
And Castle nut, where one on three doth sit,  
He wins the four, that any one can hit:  
Another down a steep set board doth throw,  
And wins by hitting any nut below:  
Another Odd or even plays a game,  
At which he wins that can the number name.  
Others chalk figures in triangle fashion,  
Much like great Deltas starry constellation,  
In which, the walnuts set in distance like,  
One throws and wins all that his stick doth strike.  
Sometime in distance set a part doth stand.  
In which one throws a nut with lucky hand.   

Happy that tree, that grows in private fields:  
She all her tribute to her master yields,  
She neither outcries hears, nor rumbling wheels,  
Nor from the neighbouring way the dust she feels.  
All that she bears must for her master be.  
Which she at once in complete troop can see.  
But I never keep my fruit till it grow ripe:  
To soon they rob my boughs with many a stripe.  
My shell but soft, my kernel milk as yet,  
My nuts for any use can never be fit:   

My fruit is common, some perhaps will say,  
Get it who can, it borders on the way.  
If this be law, your neighbour's barley mow,  
Pluck olives, let not his poor potherbs grow:  
Let foragers invade your City gates,  
And rattle London walls upon your pates:  
Let it be lawful made, or thought a trifle,  
To rob your Goldsmith's shops and jewels rifle:  
Let roisters snatch your coin, and precious stones,  
Or what goods else they can, and make no bones.  
But all is well: God bless our good King's life,  
Who keeps us safe from robbery and strife:  
His awful sceptre doth our City guide  
In blessed peace, and all his Realms beside.  
What good get I poor nut by this, though peace  
Be o'er the world, if my blows cannot cease.  
Therefore the frighted birds dare build no nest  
Upon my arms, nor perch here for their rest.  
If on my forked boughs there rest a stone,  
He sits as if he thought the town his own.   

They that for other faults are oft accused,  
Will stand in't 'twas not they, they are abused:  
But they that rob me, cannot well deny it:  
Written upon their fingers you may spy it.  
That which I brand them with, is my dear blood;  
Wash while they will, their washing does no good.   

Weary of loathed life how oft have I  
Wished my root withered and my branches dry!  
How oft with whirlwinds to be overturned,  
Or with a flash of lightning to be burned!  
O that a storm would dash them to the earth  
Or could I cast them by abortive birth.  
The cause withdrawn, past is all dangerous doubt.  
The hunted Beaver so his stones bites out.   

What heart have I when clowns do cudgels take,  
And pry where they their battery best may make.