I often tried in vain to find
A simile* for womankind,
*[Footnote: Most ladies, in reading, call this word a smile;
but they are to note, it consists of three syllables, sim-i-le.
In English, a likeness.]
A simile, I mean, to fit 'em,
In every circumstance to hit 'em.
[Footnote: Not to hurt them.]
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* presented to my view,
*[Footnote: Not like a gun or pistol.]
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?
[Footnote: This is not meant as to shooting, but resolving.]
Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under, When, bellowing*, they discharge their thunder: *[Footnote: This word is not here to be understood of a bull, but a cloud, which makes a noise like a bull, when it thunders.] So, when the alarum-bell is rung, Of Xanti's* everlasting tongue, [Footnote: Xanti, a nick-name of Xantippe, that scold of glorious memory, who never let poor Socrates have one moment's peace of mind; yet with unexampled patience he bore her pestilential tongue. I shall beg the ladies' pardon if I insert a few passages concerning her: and at the same time I assure them it is not to lesson those of the present age, who are possessed of the like laudable talents; for I will confess, that I know three in the city of Dublin, no way inferior to Xantippe, but that they have not as great men to work upon.
When a friend asked Socrates how he could bear the scolding of his wife Xantippe, he retorted, and asked him how he could bear the gaggling of his geese Ay but my geese lay eggs for me, replies his friend; So does my wife bear children, said Socrates.—Diog, Laert,
Being asked at another time, by a friend, how he could bear her tongue, he said, she was of this use to him, that she taught him to bear the impertinences of others with more ease when he went abroad,— Plat, de Capiend. ex. host. utilit.
Socrates invited his friend Euthymedus to supper. Xantippe, in great rage, went into them, and overset the table. Huthymedus, rising in a passion to go off, My dear friend, stay, said Socrates, did not a hen do the same thing at your house the other day, and did I show any resentment?—Plat, de ira cohibenda.
I could give many more instances of her termagancy and his philosophy, if such a proceeding might not look as if I were glad of an opportunity to expose the fair sex; but, to show that I have no such design, I declare solemnly, that I had much worse stories to tell of her behaviour to her husband, which I rather passed over, on account of the great esteem which I bear the ladies, especially those in the honorable station of matrimony.]
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: [Footnote: Ramble.]
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, [Footnote: Not vomiting.]
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 [Footnote: Thrusting out the lip.] gloom
She seems to darken all the room;
Again she's pleased, his fear's beguiled,
[Footnote: This is to be understood not in the sense of wort, when
brewers put yeast or barm in it; but its true meaning is, deceived or
cheated.]
And all is clear when she has smiled.
In this they're wondrously alike,
(I hope this simile will strike)[Footnote: Hit your fancy.]
Though in the darkest dumps* you view them,
*[Footnote: Sullen fits. We have a merry jig called Dumpty-Deary,
invented to rouse ladies from the dumps.]
Stay but a moment, you'll see through them.
The clouds are apt to make reflection,
[Footnote: Reflection of the sun.]
And frequently produce infection:
So Celia, with small provocation,
Blasts every neighbor's reputation.
The clouds delight in gaudy show,
(For they, like ladies, have their bow;)
The gravest matron* will confess,
*[Footnote: Motherly woman.]
That she herself is fond of dress.
Observe the clouds in pomp array'd,
What various colors 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,*
*[Footnote: Not grace before and after meat, nor their graces the
duchesses, but the Graces which attended on Venus.]
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 vapors rise,
We see them dropping from your eyes.
In evening fair you may behold
The clouds are fring'd with borrow'd gold;
And this is many a lady's case,
Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace.
[Footnote: Not Flauders-lace, but gold and silver lace. By borrowed, I
mean such as run into honest tradesmen's debts, for which they were
not able to pay, as many of them did for French silver lace, against
the last birth-day. Vide the shopkeepers' books.]
Grave matrons are like clouds of snow,
Where words fall thick, and soft, and slow;
While brisk coquettes,* like rattling hail,
*[Footnote: Girls who love to hear themselves prate, and put on a
number of monkey-airs to catch men.]
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,* you see,
*[Footnote: I hope none will be so uncomplaisant to the ladies as to
think these comparisons are odious.]
In every instance they agree;
So like, so very much the same,
That one may go by t'other's name,
Let me proclaim* it then aloud,
*[Footnote: Tell the whole world; not to proclaim them as robbers and
rapparees.]
That every woman is a cloud.
ON A LAPDOG. JOHN GAY.
Shock's fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no more:
Ye Muses! mourn: ye Chambermaids! deplore.
Unhappy Shock! yet more unhappy fair,
Doom'd to survive thy joy and only care.
Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck,
And tie the favorite ribbon round his neck;
No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair,
And comb the wavings of his pendent ear.
Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid!
All mortal pleasures in a moment fade:
Our surest hope is in an hour destroy'd,
And love, best gift of Heaven, not long enjoy'd.