Classic Poem

It hath been said of old that plays are feasts,
Poets the cooks, and the spectators guests,
The actors waiters: from this simile
Some have derived an unsafe liberty,
To use their judgments as their tastes, which choose
Without control this dish, and that refuse.
But wit allows not this large privilege:
Either you must confess or feel its edge.
Nor shall you make a current inference,
If you transfer your reason to your sense:
Things are distinct, and must the same appear
To every piercing eye or well-tuned ear.
Though sweets with yours, sharps best with my taste meet,
Both must agree this meat's or sharp or sweet:
But if I scent a stench or a perfume,
Whilst you smell nought at all, I may presume
You have that sense imperfect: so you may
Affect a sad, merry, or humorous play,
If, though the kind distaste or please, the good
And bad be by your judgment understood.
But if, as in this play, where with delight
I feast my Epicurean appetite
With relishes so curious, as dispense
The utmost pleasure to the ravish'd sense,
You should profess that you can nothing meet
That hits your taste either with sharp or sweet,
But cry out, 'Tis insipid! your bold tongue
May do its master, not the author, wrong;
For men of better palate will by it
Take the just elevation of your wit.