Classic Poem

We owe, alas! to woman's sin
The woes with which we grapple;—
To think that all our plagues came in
For one poor stolen apple!
And still we love the darling thief
Whose rosy fingers stole it;—
Her weakness brought the world to grief,
Her smiles alone console it!
—I take the “stolen” fruit you leave,—
(Forgive me, Maid and Madam,)
It makes me dream that you are Eve,
And wish that I were Adam!