"Her heart's like a lemon, so nice, / She carves for each lover a slice."
— Hoare, Prince (1755-1834)
Author
Place of Publication
London
Publisher
Printed for T. N. Longman
Date
February 2, 1796
Metaphor
"Her heart's like a lemon, so nice, / She carves for each lover a slice."
Metaphor in Context
RALPH
Oh! a plague of these women! They are just like--
[Air.--Ralph.]
A woman is like 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--O 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 humour she meet me,
She is like a rich dish
Of ven'son 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 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 flower,
Like a shower,
Like a fly,
Like a pye,
Like a pea,
Like a flea,
Like a thief,
Like--in brief,
She's like nothing on earth--but a woman.
Oh! a plague of these women! They are just like--
[Air.--Ralph.]
A woman is like 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--O 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 humour she meet me,
She is like a rich dish
Of ven'son 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 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 flower,
Like a shower,
Like a fly,
Like a pye,
Like a pea,
Like a flea,
Like a thief,
Like--in brief,
She's like nothing on earth--but a woman.
Categories
Provenance
Searching in HDIS (Drama); found again
Citation
Prince Hoare, Lock and Key: a Musical Entertainment, in Two Acts (London: T. N. Longman, 1796). <Link to ECCO>
Date of Entry
11/16/2006
Date of Review
06/29/2012
