A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES.

By Dr. SHERIDAN. 1733.

To make a writer mifs his end,
You've nothing elfe to do but mend."

OFTEN try'd in vain to find
A fimile for woman-kind,
Smile I mean to fit 'em,
every circumftance to hit 'em.
rough every beat and bird I went,
nfeck'd every clement;

d, after peeping through all nature,
find fo whimsical a creature,
loud prefented to my view,
d ftrait this parallel I drew :
Clouds turn with every wind about ;
y keep us in fufpence and doubt;
oft perverfe, like woman-kind,
efeen to feud against the wind:
d are not women just the fame?
who
can tell at what they aim?

Clouds keep the ftouteft mortals under,
en bellowing they discharge their thunder:
when th' alarum-bell is rung
Xanti's everlafting tongue,

e husband dreads its loudness more
an lightning's flash, or thunder's roar.
Clouds weep, as they do, without pain;
d what are tears but women's rain?

The clouds about the welkin roam;
d ladies never ftay at home.

The clouds build castles in the air,
thing peculiar to the fair;

rall the fchemes of their forecasting,
e not more folid, nor more lafting.
A cloud is light by turns, and dark;
h is a lady with her fpark:
w with a fudden pouting gloom
e feems to darken all the room;
ain the 's pleas'd, his fears beguil'd,
d all is clear when she has fmil'd.
this they 're wondrously alike
hope the fimile will strike);

ough in the darkest dumps you view them, ay but a moment, you'll fee through them. The clouds are apt to make reflection, ad frequently produce infection; Calia, with fmall provocat on, afts every neighbour's reputation. The clouds delight in gaudy show or they, like ladies, have their bow); graveft matron will confefs, a: fhe herfelf is fond of drefs.

Obferve the clouds in pomp array'd,
hat various colours are difplay'd;
he pink, the rofe, the violet's dye,
that great drawing-room the fky;
ow do thefe differ from our Graces,
garden filks, brocades, and laces?
re they not fuch another fight,
Then met upon a birth-day night?

The clouds delight to change their fashion:
(Dear ladies, be not in a paffion!)
Nor let this whim to you seem strange,
Who every hour delight in change,

In them and you alike are feen
The fullen fymptoms of the fpleen;
The moment that your vapours rife,
We fee them dropping from your cyes.

In evening fair you may behold
The clouds are fring'd with borrow'd gold;
And this is many a lady's cafe,
Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace.

Grave matrons are like clouds of fnow,
Their words fall thick, and foft, and flow;
While brifk coquettes, like rattling hail,
Our ears on every fide affail.

Clouds, when they intercept our fight,
Deprive us of celeftial light:
So when my Chloe I purfue,
No heaven befides I have in view.
Thus, on comparison, you fee,
In every inftance they agree,
So like, fo very much the fame,
That one may go by t' other's name.
Let me proclaim it then aloud,
That every woman is a cloud.

P

ANSWER. By Dr. SWIFT.

RESUMPTUOUS Bard! how could you dare
A woman with a cloud compare?
Strange pride and infolence you how
Inferior mortals there below.
And is our thunder in your ears
So frequent or fo loud as theirs?
Alas! our thunder foon goes out;
And only makes you more devout.
Then is not female clatter worse,
That drives you not to pray, but curfe?

We hardly thunder thrice a year;
The bolt difcharg'd, the fky grows clear:
But every fublunary dowdy,

The more the fcolds, the more he's cloudy.

Some critick, may object, perhaps,
That clouds are blam'd for giving claps ;
But what, alas! are cops thereal,
Compar'd for mischief to venereal?
Can clouds give buboes, ulcers, blotches,
Or from your nefes dig out notches?
We leave the body fweet and found;
We kill, 'tis true, but never wound.

You know a cloudy sky befpeaks
Fair weather when the morning breaks;
But women in a cloudy plight
Foretello ftorm to lait all night.

A cloud in proper feafons pours
His billings down in fruitful flowers;
But woman was by fate defign'd

o pour dows curfes on mankind.
When Sirius o'er the welkin rages,
Our kindly help his fire affuages;
But woman is a curft inflamer,
No parish ducking-fool can tame.her:

Το

To kindle ftrife, dame Nature taught her;
Like fire-works, fhe can burn in water.

For fickleness how durft you blame us,
Who for our conftancy are famous ?
You'll fee a cloud in gerle weather
Keep the fame face ar: ' ur together;
While women, if it could be reckon'd,
Change every feature every fecond.

Obferve our figure in a morning,
Of foul or fair we give you warning;
But can you guefs from woman's air
One minute, whether foul or fair?

Go read in ancient books enroll'd
What honours we poffefs'd of old.
To difappoint Ixion's rape,
Jove dreft a cloud in Juno's fhape:
Which when he had enjoy d. he swore,
No goddefs could have pleas'd him more;
No difference could he find between
His cloud and Jove's imperial queen :
His cloud produc'd a race of Centaurs,
Fam'd for a thousand bold adventures;
From us defcended ab origine,
By learn'd authors call'd nubigene.

But fay, what earthly nymph do you know,
So beautiful to pass for Juno?

Before Eneas durft afpire
To court her Majesty of Tyre,
His mother begg'd of us to drefs him,
1 hat Dido might the more carefs him :
A coat we gave him, dy'd in grain,
A faxen wig and clouded cane,
(The wig was powder'd round with fleet,
Which fell in clouds beneath his feet),
With which he made a tearing show;
And Dido quickly foak'd the beau.

Among your females make enquiries,
What nymph on earth fo fair as Iris?
With heavenly beauty fo endow'd?
And yet her father is a cloud.
We dreft her in a gold brocade,
Befitting Juno's favourite maid.

'Tis known, that Socrates the wife
Ador'd us clouds as deities:
To us he made his daily prayers,
As Ariftophanes declares;
From Jupiter took all dominion,
And dy'd defending his opinion.
By his authority 'tis plain
You worship other gods in vain,
And from your own experience know
We govern all things there below.
You follow where we pleafe to guide ;
O'er all your paffions we prefide,
Can raise them up, or fink them down,
As we think fit to fmile or frown:
And, just as we difpofe your brain,
Are witty, dull, rejoice, complain.

Compare us then to female race!
We, to whom ali the gods give place!
Who better challenge your allegiance,
Becaufe we dwell in higher regions!
You find the gods in Homer dwell
la feas and Arcams, or low as hell :

Ev'n Jove, and Mercury his pimp,
No higher climb than mount Olymp,
(Who makes you think the clouds he pierces ?
He pierce the clouds! he kiss their a—es) ;
While we, o'er Teneriffa plac'd,

Are loftier by a mile at leaft:
And, when Apollo ftruts on Pindus,
We fee him from our kitchen-windows;
Or, to Parnaffus looking down,
Can pifs upon his laurel crown.

Fate never form'd the gods to fly;
In vehicles they mount the sky:
When Jove would fome fair nymph inveigle
He comes full gallop on his eagle.
Though Venus be as light as air,

She must have doves to draw her chair.
Apollo tirs not out of door
Without his lacker'd coach and four.
And jealous Juno, ever fnarling,
Is drawn by peacocks in her berlin.
But we can fly where'er we please,
O er cities, rivers, hills, and feas.
From east to west the world we roam,
And in all climates are at home;
With care provide you, as we go,
With fun-fhine, rain, and hail, or (now,
You, when it rains, like fools believe,
Jove piffes on you through a sieve,
An id'e tale, 'tis no fuch matter;
We only dip a fpunge in water;
Then fqueeze it clofe between our thumbs
And shake it well, and down it comes.
As you shall to your forrow know,
We'll watch your steps where'er you go;
And, fince we find you walk a-foot,
We'll foundly fouce your frize furtout.

'Tis but by our peculiar grace,
That Phoebus ever fhows his face:
For, when we please, we open wide
Our curtains blue from fide to fide:
And then how faucily he shows
His brazen face and fiery nofe;
And gives himself a haughty air,
As if he made the weather fair!

'Tis fung, wherever Cælia treads,
The violets ope their purple heads;
The rofes blow, the cowflip fprings :
'Tis fung; but we know better things.
'Tis true, a woman on her mettle
Will often pifs upon a nettle;

But, though we own fhe makes it wetter,
The nettle never thrives the better;
While we, by foft prolific fhowers,
Can every fpring produce you flowers.

Your poets, Chloe's beauty heightening,
Compare her radiant eyes to lightning;
And yet I hope 'twill be allow'd,
That lightning comes but from a cloud.

But gods like us have too much sense
At pocts' flights to take offence :
Nor can hyperboles demean us ;
Each drab has been compared to Venus

We own your verses are melodious,
But fuch comparisons are odious.

A VINDICATION

DR. SHERIDAN's BALLAD

A

ON BALLYSPELLIN*.

LL you that would refine your blood,
As pure as fam'd Llewellyn,

By waters clear, come every year,
To drink at Ballyfpellin.

Though pox or itch your fkins enrich

With rubics paft the telling,

"Twill clear your fkin before you 've been A month at Ballyfpellin.

If lady's check be green as leek

When fhe comes from her dwelling,
The kindling rofe within it glows
When the 's at Ballyfpellin.

The footy brown, who comes from town,
Grows here as fair as Helen;

Then back fhe goes, to kill the beaux
By dint of Ballyfpellin.

Our ladies are as fresh and fair

As Rofe, or bright Lunkelling;

And Mars might make a fair mistake,
Were he at Ballyfpellin.

We mult fubmit as they think fit,
And here is no rebelling:
The reafon 's plain; the ladies reign,
They 're queens at Ballyfpellin.

By matchlefs charms, unconquer'd arms,
They have the way of quelling
Such defperate foes as dare oppofe
Their power at Ballyfpellin.

Cold water turns to fire, and burns,

I know, because I fell in

A ftream which came from one bright dame
Who drank at Ballyspellin.

Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance,
To bring their Anne or Nell in

With fo much grace, I'm fure no place
Can vie with Ballyfpellin.

No politicks, no fubtle tricks,

No man his country felling:

We eat, we drink; we never think
Of thefe at Ballyfpellin.

The troubled mind, the puff'd with wind,
Do all come bere pell-mell in;
And they are fure to work their cure
By drinking Ballyspellin.

Though dropfy fills you to the gills,
From chin to toe though fwelling;

Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubt
A cure at Ballyfpeilin.

A famous fpa in the county of Kilkenny, where the Doctor had been to drink the waters with a favourite Lady. N.

Death throws no darts through all these parts,

No fextons here are knelling:

Come, judge and try, you 'll never die,
But live at Ballyfpellin ;

Except you feel darts tipt with fteel,

Which here are every belle in:

When from their eyes fweet ruin flies,
We die at Ballyfpellin.

Good cheer, fweet air, much joy, no care,
Your fight, your tafte, your smelling,
Your ears, your touch, transported much
Each day at Bally(pellin.

Within this ground we all fleep found,

No noify dogs a-yelling;
Except you wake, for Calia's fake,
All night at Ballyfpellin.

There all you fee, both he and she,
No lady keeps her cell in ;

But all partake the mirth we make,
Who drink at Ballyfpellin.

My rhymes are gone; I think I 've none,
Unlefs 1 fhould bring hell in;
But, fince I'm here to heaven so near,
I can't at Ballyspellin !

ANSWER.

BY DR. SWIFT.*

DARE you difpute, you faucy brute,

And think there's no refeiling Your fcurvy lays, and fenfeless praife

You give to Ballyfpellin?

Howe'er you bounce, I here pronounce,
Your medicine is repelling;

Your water's mud, and fours the blood,
When drunk at Ballyfpellin.

Thofe pocky drabs, to cure the scabs,

You thither are compelling,

Will back be fent, worse than they went,
From nafty Ballyspellin.

Llewellyn why? As well may I

Name honeft doctor Peilin;

So hard fonetimes you tug for rhymes,
To bring in Bally spellin.

No fubject fit to try your wit,

When you went colonelling,

But dull intrigues 'twixt jades and teagues
That met at Ballyfpellin.

Our laffes fair, fay what you dare,

Who fewing make with fhelling,
At Market-hill more beaux can kill,
Than yours at Ballyfpellin.

Would I was whipt, when Sheclah ftript
To wash herfelf our well in;

A bum fo white ne'er came in fight,
At paltry Ballyfpellin.

*This anfwer was refented by Dr. Sheridan, as an affront to himfelf and the lady he attended to the spa. N.

Your

Your mawkins there fmocks hempen wear,

Of Holland not an ellin;

No, not a rag, whate'er you brag,

Is found at Ballyfpellin.

But Tom will prate at any rate,
All other nymphs expelling;
Because he gets a few grifettes
At loufy Ballyfpellin.

There's bonny Jane, in yonder lane,
Juft o'er against The Bell-inn;
Where can you meet a lafs fo fweet,
Round all your Ballyfpellin?
We have a girl deferves an earl;
She came from Enniskillin:
So fair, fo young, no fuch among
The belles at Ballyspellin.

How would you flare to fee her there,
The foggy mift dispelling,

That clouds the brows of every blowse
Who lives at Ballyspellin !
Now as I live, I would not give
A ftiver for a fskellin,

To towfe and kifs the faireft mifs
That leaks at Ballyfpellin.
Whoe'er will raife fuch lies as thefe
Deferves a good cudgelling ;
Who fafely boats of belles and toafts,
At dirty Ballyfpellin.

My rhymes are gone, to all but one,
Which is, our trees are felling;
As proper quite as thofe you write,
To force in Ballyfpellin.

"Whose master Moore§ preferv'd him from the

A poor thieving cottager, under Mr. Moore, condemned at Clonmell aflizes to be hanged for

tealing

COWS. VOL. V.

Ibid.

On a PRINTER's being sent to NEWGATE. BETTER we all were in our graves

Than live in flavery to flaves,

Worfe than the anarchy at fea,
Where fishes on each other prey;
Where every trout can make as high rants
O'er his inferiors as our tyrants,
And fwagger while the coast is clear:
But, fhould a lordly pike appear,
Away you see the variet fcud,
Or hide his coward fnout in mud.
Thus, if a gudgeon meet a roach,
He dare not venture to approach;
Yet still has impudence to rife,
And, like Domitian, leap at flies.

§ The grandfather of Guy Moore, Efq. whe procured him a pardon. Ibid.

Guy Moore, Efq. was fairly elected member of parliament for Cloumell; but Sir Thomas, depending upon his intereft with a certain party then prevailing, and fince known by the title of parfon-hunters. petitioned the house against him; out of which he was turned upon pretence of bribery, which the paying of his lawful debts was then voted to be. Ibid.

** Save a thief from the gallows, and he will cut your throat" Ibid.

$$ Mr. George Faulkner. See the fucceeding verfes

N.

*That this poem is the genuine production of the Dean, Lord Chesterfield bears ample tetimony in his Letter to M. Voltaire, August 27. 1752. N.

Iii

"Offending