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,
Am 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.
Ah 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 five-pence 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 her 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.