Myrtle, tree, plant, thorn

The Passionate Pilgrim, [20.1-12]. “As if tell upon a day/ In the merry month of May,/ Sitting in a pleasant shade/ Which a grove of myrtles made,/ Beasts did leap, and birds did sing,/ Trees did grow, and plants did spring;/ Everything did banish moan,/ Save the nightingale alone./ She, poor bird, as all forlorn,/ Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn,/ And there sung the dolefull’st ditty,/ That to hear it was great pity.”