A New Simile for the Ladies. With Useful Annotations, by Dr. Sheridan. 1733

To make a writer miss his end,You've nothing else to do but mend.

I often tried in vain to findA simile for womankind,A simile, I mean, to fit 'em,In every circumstance to hit 'em.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,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?Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under,When, bellowing, they discharge their thunder:So, when the alarum-bell is rung,Of Xanti's everlasting tongue,The husband dreads its loudness moreThan 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: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,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 gloomShe seems to darken all the room;Again she's pleased, his fear's beguiled,And all is clear when she has smiled.In this they're wondrously alike,(I hope the simile will strike,)Though in the darkest dumps you view them,Stay but a moment, you'll see through them.The clouds are apt to make reflection,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 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,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 seenThe sullen symptoms of the spleen;The moment that your vapours rise,We see them dropping from your eyes.In evening fair you may beholdThe clouds are fringed with borrow'd gold;And this is many a lady's case,Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace.Grave matrons are like clouds of snow,Their words fall thick, and soft, and slow;While brisk coquettes, 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, 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 it then aloud,That every woman is a cloud.