Song XXXI. Woman

A WOMAN is to—but stay— What a woman is like, who can say? There's no living with or without one— Love bites like a fly, Now an ear, now an eye, Buz, buz, always buzzing about one, When she's tender and kind, She is like, to my mind, (And Fanny was so I remember) She is 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 is like a rich dish Of ven'son or fish, That cries from the table—come eat me!

But Sh'll plague you, and vex you, Distract and perplex you, False hearted and ranging, Unsettl'd and changing, What then do you think she is like? Like a sand? like a rock? Like a wheel? like a clock? Aye, a clock that is always at strike; Her head's like the island folks tell on, Which nothing but monkies 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 flow'r, Like a show'r 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