Classic Poem

There are who know what once to day it was;
Your eyes, your Conscience, and your morning glasse.
How durst you venture that adulterate part
Belabour'd with your fucus and best Art,
To the rude breath of every rash salute?
What did your profer whisper? expect suit?
You were too pliant with your eare; you wisht
Pomatum and Vermilion might be kiss'd,
That lip, that cheeke by man was never known,
Those favours you bestow are not your own.
Hence forth such kisses I'le defie, like Thee,
Which druggists sell to you, and you to me.