A Song Of Similies Poem by Phanuel Bacon

I've Thought; the fair Clarissa cries:
What is it like, Sir?-Like your Eyes.
'Tis like a Chair-'Tis like a Key-
'Tis like a Purge-'Tis like a Flea-
'Tis like a Beggar-like the Sun-
'Tis like the Dutch-'Tis like the Moon-
'Tis like a Kilderkin of Ale-
'Tis like a Doctor-like a Whale.


Why are my Eyes, Sir, like a Sword?
For that's the Thought upon my Word.-
Ah! witness ev'ry Pang I feel;
The Deaths they give their Likeness tell.


A Sword is like a Chair, you'll find,
Because 'tis most an end behind.
'Tis like a Key, for 'twill undo one;
'Tis like a Purge, for 'twill run through one.
'Tis like a Flea, and Reason good,
'Tis often drawing human Blood.
Why like a Beggar you shall hear,
'Tis often borne before the Mayor.


'Tis like the Sun because 'tis gilt,
Besides it travels in a Belt.
'Tis like the Dutch we plainly see,
Because that State, whenever we
A Push for our own Int'rest make,
Does instantly our Sides forsake.
The Moon-Why when all's said and done,
A Sword is very like the Moon:
For if his Majesty, (God bless him)
When County Sheriff comes t' address him,
Is pleas'd his Favours to bestow
On him before him kneeling low,
This o'er his Shoulders glitters bright,
And gives the Glory to the Knight.


'Tis like a Kilderkin, no Doubt,
For 'tis not long in drawing out.
'Tis like a Doctor, for who will
Dispute a Doctor's Pow'r to kill?
But why a Sword is like a Whale,
Is no such easy Thing to tell.
But since all Swords are Swords, d'ye see,
Why let it then a Backsword be:
Which, if well us'd, will seldom fail
To raise up somewhat like a Whale.