[Footnote 1: This poem was written by Sheridan, who had it presented to the Bishop by a beggar, in the form of a petition, to Swift's great surprise, who was in the carriage with his Lordship at the time.--_Scott._]
A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES WITH USEFUL ANNOTATIONS, BY DR. SHERIDAN[1] 1733
To make a writer miss his end, You've nothing else to do but mend.
I often tried in vain to find A simile[2] for womankind, A simile, I mean, to fit 'em, In every circumstance to hit 'em.[3] Through every beast and bird I went, I ransack'd every element; And, after peeping through all nature, To find so whimsical a creature, A cloud[4] presented to my view, And straight this parallel I drew: Clouds turn with every wind about, They keep us in suspense and doubt, Yet, oft perverse, like womankind, Are seen to scud against the wind: And are not women just the same? For who can tell at what they aim?[5] Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under, When, bellowing,[6] they discharge their thunder: So, when the alarum-bell is rung, Of Xanti's[7] everlasting tongue, The husband dreads its loudness more Than lightning's flash, or thunder's roar. Clouds weep, as they do, without pain; And what are tears but women's rain? The clouds about the welkin roam:[8] And ladies never stay at home. The clouds build castles in the air, A thing peculiar to the fair: For all the schemes of their forecasting,[9] Are not more solid nor more lasting. A cloud is light by turns, and dark, Such is a lady with her spark; Now with a sudden pouting[10] gloom She seems to darken all the room; Again she's pleased, his fear's beguiled,[11] And all is clear when she has smiled. In this they're wondrously alike, (I hope the simile will strike,)[12] Though in the darkest dumps[13] you view them, Stay but a moment, you'll see through them. The clouds are apt to make reflection,[14] And frequently produce infection; So Celia, with small provocation, Blasts every neighbour's reputation. The clouds delight in gaudy show, (For they, like ladies, have their bow;) The gravest matron[15] will confess, That she herself is fond of dress. Observe the clouds in pomp array'd, What various colours are display'd; The pink, the rose, the violet's dye, In that great drawing-room the sky; How do these differ from our Graces,[16] In garden-silks, brocades, and laces? Are they not such another sight, When met upon a birth-day night? The clouds delight to change their fashion: (Dear ladies, be not in a passion!) Nor let this whim to you seem strange, Who every hour delight in change. In them and you alike are seen The sullen symptoms of the spleen; The moment that your vapours rise, We see them dropping from your eyes. In evening fair you may behold The clouds are fringed with borrow'd gold; And this is many a lady's case, Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace.[17] Grave matrons are like clouds of snow, Their words fall thick, and soft, and slow; While brisk coquettes,[18] like rattling hail, Our ears on every side assail. Clouds, when they intercept our sight, Deprive us of celestial light: So when my Chloe I pursue, No heaven besides I have in view. Thus, on comparison,[19] you see, In every instance they agree; So like, so very much the same, That one may go by t'other's name. Let me proclaim[20] it then aloud, That every woman is a cloud.