Classic Poem

By all that's sacred, I declare,
I'm doubtful which I should prefer;
Whether, Æmilius, I would chuse
Thy odious mouth, to feast my nose,
Or that more odious part which shame
Forbids me in my verse to name!
Neither is over clean at best;
But if I must, I'd take the last;
Its toothless, sure; whereas, you know,
Thy mouth has tusks a yard, or so;
Has gums so full of holes, and stink,
'Twas a worm-eaten chest you'd think;
And then its width! which to my mind
Brings some toil'd she-mule, oft inclin'd
To stale; when, chaf'd by summer heats
The brine's lax aperture dilates:
Yet to the nymphs this-homely swain
Makes love, and of his form is vain:
O, worthier, sure, a lash to feel,
And work with asses at the mill!
Who'd kiss that wretch might kiss, I swear,
A pale fac'd hangman you know where!