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 deriv'd 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-tun'd 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 naught 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN EPITAPH, INTENDED FOR HIMSELF by JAMES BEATTIE PEEWEE by ALFRED FRANCIS KREYMBORG TO SCIENCE; SONNET by EDGAR ALLAN POE THE DEAD HEROES by ISAAC ROSENBERG THE SWAN SONG OF PARSON AVERY by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE DOLLS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS SONNETS OF MANHOOD: 15. ONE NIGHT WITH THEE by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |