Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 17.djvu/447

Rh I, melancholy as a cat, Am kept awake to peep; 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 scotfree 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