| A woman is like to—but stay— What a woman is like, who can say? There is no living with or without one. Love bites like a fly, Now an ear, now an eye, Buzz, buzz, always buzzing about one. When she's tender and kind She is like to my mind, (And Fanny was so, I remember). She's like to—Oh, dear! She's as good, very near, As a ripe, melting peach in September. If she laugh, and she chat, Play, joke, and all that, And with smiles and good humor she meet me, She's like a rich dish Of venison or fish, That cries from the table, Come eat me! But she'll plague you and vex you, Distract and perplex you; False-hearted and ranging, Unsettled and changing, What then do you think, she is like? Like sand? Like a rock? Like a wheel? Like a clock? Ay, a clock that is always at strike. Her head's like the island folks tell on, Which nothing but monkeys can dwell on; Her heart's like a lemon—so nice She carves for each lover a slice; In truth she's to me, Like the wind, like the sea, Whose raging will hearken to no man; Like a mill, like a pill, Like a flail, like a whale, Like an ass, like a glass Whose image is constant to no man; Like a shower, like a flower, Like a fly, like a pie, Like a pea, like a flea, Like a thief, like—in brief, She's like nothing on earth—but a woman! Unknown. |
