YOung John the Gardner having lately got
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A very rich Garden plot,
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Bragging to Jone, quoth he, so rich a ground
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For millions cannot in the World be found,
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For 'tis a good ground:
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That's a damn'd lye, quoth Jone,
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For I can tell a place that does your Garden far excel,
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In the midst there stands a Well,
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Where's that, says John, between my Legs, says
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For there's a Plant well set, which flourish'd all the year,
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And ne're will decay, thou needst not to fear;
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For if it drops I such an art have got,
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To raise it, that my fertile Garden-plot
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Will then restore itself as at first,
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In better ground no plant was ever thrust.
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Say so, says John, then open thy gay green Gate,
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I have a choice plant to set without fate.
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Prethee John be quiet, and let my Garden go free,
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For I can have better Plants than any thou canst give me.
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Nay, nay, my Jone, you must not now dispute,
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Let me but graft, and you shall have the fruit.
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