 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
OH, WOMEN ARE ANGELS.
Oh, women are angels, in limbs,
In person, and manners, and features,
But what shall we say of the whims,
That govern these comical creatures?
By turns they will fondle and tease—
With what would you have me compare them?
Though buzzing and stinging like bees,
For the sake of the honey we bear them.
Yet women are angels, you see,
There's something so charming about them,
Whatever their oddities be,
Oh, we never could manage without them.
In person, and manners, and features,
But what shall we say of the whims,
That govern these comical creatures?
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With what would you have me compare them?
Though buzzing and stinging like bees,
For the sake of the honey we bear them.
Yet women are angels, you see,
There's something so charming about them,
Whatever their oddities be,
Oh, we never could manage without them.
There are some that resemble ice-cream,
Which coldly forbids you to sip, sir;
But however frosty it seem,
It will melt with the warmth of your lip, sir.
While others, like counterfeit grapes,
The best imitations are hollow,
With beautiful colors and shapes,
But oh, they 're the devil to swallow.
Yet women are angels, &c.
Which coldly forbids you to sip, sir;
But however frosty it seem,
It will melt with the warmth of your lip, sir.
While others, like counterfeit grapes,
The best imitations are hollow,
With beautiful colors and shapes,
But oh, they 're the devil to swallow.
Yet women are angels, &c.
What strange contradictions they show,
In matters of conjugal bliss, sir,
While frowning and crying “no, no!”
They wish you to take it for “yes, sir.”
Pursue, and how swift they will fly,
All panting with fears and alarms, sir,
Retreat—and I'll bet you my eye,
They'll pant, by-and-by, in your arms, sir.
Yet women are angels, &c.
In matters of conjugal bliss, sir,
While frowning and crying “no, no!”
They wish you to take it for “yes, sir.”
Pursue, and how swift they will fly,
All panting with fears and alarms, sir,
Retreat—and I'll bet you my eye,
They'll pant, by-and-by, in your arms, sir.
Yet women are angels, &c.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |