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 groat 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 anything.

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 speed;

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.