Frank J. Wilstach, comp. A Dictionary of Similes. 1916.

Robert Lloyd

Authors, like maids at fifteen years,
Are full of wishes, full of fears.

Born like a momentary fly to flutter, buzz around, and die.

Close as thorn is to the rose.

Critics, like surgeons, blest with curious art,
Should mark each passage to the human heart;
But not, unskillful, yet with lordly air,
Read surgeon’s lectures while they scalp and tear.

Flame, like a meteor, to the troubled air.

Gleams like the taper in the blaze of day.

Insipid, and dull as a drone,
Though near to each other
As sister and brother,
They both take their airing alone.

Lifeless and lumpish as the bagpipe’s drowsy drone.

Poets, like candles, are all puffers,
And critics are the candle snuffers.

Thus love and quarrels (April weather)
Like vinegar and oil together
Join in an easy mingled strife,
To make the salad up of life.

Roaring like a lion for his food.

Rules, like crutches, ne’er became of any use but to the lame.

Rush like gudgeons to the bait.

Exact and slow
Like wooden monarchs at a puppet show.

Their words, like stage processions, stalk along.

The same unvaried tone,
Like the Scotch bagpipe’s favorite drone.

For wits, like adjectives, are known to cling to that which stands alone.

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