We hardly thunder thrice a-year;
The bolt difcharge'd, the fky grows clear;
But ev'ry fublunary dowdy,
The more fhe fcolds, the more fhe's cloudy.
Some critic may object, perhaps,
That clouds are blam'd for giving claps;
But what, alas! are claps ætherial,
Compar'd for mifchief, to venerial?
Can clouds give buboes, ulcers, blotches,
Or from your nofes 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,
Foretell a ftorm to laft till night.
A cloud in proper feafons pours
His bleffings down in fruitful fhow'rs;
But woman was by fate defign'd
To pour down curfes on mankind.
When Syrius o'er the welkin rages,
Our kindly help his fire affwages;
But woman is a curs'd inflamer,
No parifh-ducking-ftool can tame her :
To kindle ftrife dame Nature taught her;
Like fire-works fhe can burn in water.
For ficklenefs how durft
you blame us,
Who for our conftancy are famous ?
You'll fee a cloud in gentle weather
Keep the fame face an hour together;
While women, if it could be reckon'd,
Change ev'ry feature ev'ry 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 inroll'd What honours we poffefs'd of old.
To difappoint Ixion's rape,
Jove drefs'd a cloud in Juno's fhape;
Which when he had enjoy'd, he fwore,
No goddess could have pleas'd him more :
No diff'rence could he find between
His cloud and Jove's imperial queen :
His cloud produce'd a race of Centaurs
Fam'd for a thousand bold adventures;
From us defcended ab origine,
By learned authors call'd nubigina.
But fay, what earthly nymph do you know
So beautiful to pafs for Juno?
Before Æneas durft afpire
To court her Majefty of Tyre,
His mother begg'd of us to dress him,
That Dido might the more carefs him :
A coat we gave him dy'd in grain,
A flaxen 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 fhow;
And Dido quickly fmok'd the beau.
Among your females make inquiries,
What nymph on earth fo fair as Īris?
What heav'nly beauty fo endow'd?
And yet her father is a cloud.
We drefs'd her in a gold brocade,
Befitting Juno's fav'rite maid.
'Tis known, that Socrates the wife
Ador'd us clouds as deities;
To us he made his daily pray'rs,
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 please to guide :
O'er all your paffions we prefide,
Can raife 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 all the gods give place;
Who better challenge your allegiance,
Because we dwell in higher regions.
You find the gods in Homer dwell
In feas and ftreams, 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 kifs their a―es);
While we o'er Teneriffa place'd;
Are loftier by a mile at least;
And when Apollo ftruts on Pindus,
We fee him from our kitchen-windows;
Or to Parnaffus, looking down,
Can p-fs 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;
Tho' Venus be as light as air,
She must have doves to draw her chair;
Apollo ftirs 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 funfhine, rain, and hail, or fnow.
You, when it rains, like fools, believe
Jove piffes on you through a fieve :
An idle tale, 'tis no fuch matter;
We only dip a fpunge in water,
Then fqueefe it close between our thumbs,
And fhake it well, and down it comes :
As you fhall to your forrow know;
We'll watch your fteps 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 fhews 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, where-ever Cælia treads, The vi'lets 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 p-fs upon a nettle ;
But though we own fhe makes it wetter,
The nettle never thrives the better;
While we by foft prolific showr's
Can ev'ry fpring produce you flow'rs.
Your poets, Chloe's beauty height'ning,
Compare her radiant eyes to light'ning;
And yet I hope 'twill be allowed,
That light'ning comes but from a cloud.
But gods, like us, have too much sense At poets flights to take offence:
Nor can hyperboles demean us;
Each drab has been compar'd to Venus.
We own your verses are melodious; But fuch comparisons are odious.
From the Tenth Intelligencer.
"MY meaning will be beft unravel'd,
When I premise that Tim has travell'd."
In Lucas's by chance there lay
The fables writ by Mr. Gay.
Tim fet the volume on a table,
Read over here and there a fable;
And found, as he the pages twirl'd,
The monkey who had feen the world :
(For Tonfon had, to help the fale,
Prefix'd a cut to ev'ry tale).
The monkey was completely drefs'd,
The beau in all his airs exprefs'd.
Tim with furprise and pleasure staring,
Ran to the glass, and then comparing
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