A New Song of New Similies

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My passion is as mustard strong;
 I sit all sober sad;
Drunk as a piper all day long,
 Or like a March-hare mad.

Round as a hoop the bumpers flow;
 I drink, yet can't forget her;
For, though as drunk as David's sow,
 I love her still the better.

Pert as a pear-monger I'd be,
 If Molly were but kind;
Cool as a cucumber could see
 The rest of womankind.

Like a stuck pig I gaping stare,
 And eye her o'er and o'er;
Lean as a rake with sighs and care,
 Sleek as a mouse before.

Plump as a partridge was I known,
 And soft as silk my skin,
My cheeks as fat as butter grown;
 But as a goat now thin!

I, melancholy as a cat,
 And kept awake to weep;
But she, insensible of that,
 Sound as a top can sleep.

Hard is her heart as flint or stone,
 She laughs to see me pale;
And merry as a grig is grown,
 And brisk as bottled ale.

The God of Love at her approach
 Is busy as a bee;
Hearts, sound as any bell or roach,
 Are smit and sigh like me.

Ay me! as thick as hops or hail,
 The fine men crowd about her;
But soon as dead as a door nail
 Shall I be, if without her.

Straight as my leg her shape appears;
 O were we join'd together!
My heart would be scot-free from cares,
 And lighter than a feather.

As fine as fivepence is her mien,
 No drum was ever tighter;
Her glance is as the razor keen,
 And not the sun is brighter.

As soft as pap her kisses are,
 Methinks I taste them yet;
Brown as a berry is her hair,
 Her eyes as black as jet:

As smooth as glass, as white as curds,
 Her pretty hand invites;
Sharp as a needle are her words;
 Her wit, like pepper, bites:

Brisk as a body-louse she trips,
 Clean as a penny drest;
Sweet as a rose her breath and lips,
 Round as the globe her breast.

Full as an egg was I with glee;
 And happy as a king.
Good Lord! how all men envy'd me!
 She lov'd like any thing.

But, false as hell! she, like the wind,
 Chang'd, as her sex must do;
Though seeming as the turtle kind,
 And like the gospel true.

If I and Molly could agree,
 Let who would take Peru!
Great as an emperor should I be,
 And richer than a Jew.

Till you grow tender as a chick,
 I'm dull as any post;
Let us, like burs, together stick,
 And warm as any toast.

You'll know me truer than a dye;
 And wish me better sped;
Flat as a flounder when I lie,
 And as a herring dead.

Sure as a gun, she'll drop a tear
 And sigh, perhaps, and wish,
When I am rotten as a pear,
 And mute as any fish.

This work was published before January 1, 1923, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.