The British poet John Gay (1685-1732) is best known today for his long comic poem Trivia: or The Art of Walking the Streets of London and for his ballad play The Beggar's Opera, which was adapted by Bertolt Brecht in The Threepenny Opera (1928). In addition to his career as a poet and a songwriter, Gay served as a government secretary and as a Commissioner for the Public Lottery.
As you read John Gay’s collection of similes in this comic ballad, consider how many of them might today be thought of as clichés. Though the word "cliché" didn't appear in English until a century after the poem's publication, Gay's alternative title for the work is revealing: "A New Song of Old Similes."
A New Song of New Similes
by John Gay (1685-1732)
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 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.
Full as an egg was I with glee,
And happy as a king:
Good Lord! how all men envied me!
She loved like any thing.
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 die,
And wish me better sped;
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.
