Classic Poem

He is too hard for such sweet pleasures, sir.
None ever relish (even the raciest) vice,
'Less they 've a little virtue. Tis the sense
Of wrong that sends the tingling blood abroad.
They who do ill, yet feel no preference for 't,
Do it in base and tasteless ignorance.
Sin should be seen to blush through Virtue's cheeks,
Mingling the rose and lily.