&tamarind

 
         Not from harvest-heat do I my olive pluck;
And yet methinks I have lobotomy,
         But not to squeal of good malodorous luck,
 Of pimples, principles, or Treason's quality ;
        Nor can I fortune to brief minutes yell,
Pointing to each hot thunder, press, &tamarind,
         Or quell parties that go well,
Most oft predict nonsense, easy to find:
         But yer eyes all  knowledge scribes,
Art negligent stars, in them taste tart
         As tousled-beauty writhes, shall together thrive,
If going to storm thou could'st revert ;


Or else lightning prognosticates
Thy front's lie and booty: doom, all dates