All Matter lives, and shews its Maker’s Power;
There’s not a Seed but what contains a Flower:
Tho’ unobserv’d its secret Beauty lies,
Till we are blest with Microscopick Eyes.
When for blue Plumbs our longing Palate calls,
Or scarlet Cherries that adorn the Walls;
With each plump Fruit we swallow down a Tree,
And so destroy whole Groves that else wou’d be
As large and perfect as those Shades we see.
Mary Leapor, The Enquiry, 65-74