Classic Poem

  Jac. I T is not every man prefers an apple;
For some like best the crab. 'Tis thus with thee.
  Rod. Well, well! I own, I do not care for women
Whose kiss is like a peach. Give me a touch
O' the austere flavour. Too much sweet will spoil
The daintiest dish. That taste is immature,
And young, which feeds, like flies, on treacle, cousin:
Salt, spice, hot flavours, suit the learned tongue;
And such a one is mine.