Advertisement from the Clouds

Presumptuous bard! how could you dareA woman with a cloud compare?Strange pride and insolence you showInferior mortals there below.And is our thunder in your earsSo frequent or so loud as theirs?Alas! our thunder soon goes out;And only makes you more devout.Then is not female clatter worse,That drives you not to pray, but curse?We hardly thunder thrice a-year;The bolt discharged, the sky grows clear;But every sublunary dowdy,The more she scolds, the more she's cloudy.If she, like us, would burst asunder!Yet, though her stays hath often cursed her,And, whisp'ring, wish'd the devil burst her:For hourly thund'ring in his face,Some critic may object, perhaps,That clouds are blamed for giving claps;But what, alas! are claps ethereal,Compared for mischief to venereal?Can clouds give buboes, ulcers, blotches,Or from your noses dig out notches?We leave the body sweet and sound;We kill, 'tis true, but never wound.You know a cloudy sky bespeaksFair weather when the morning breaks;But women in a cloudy plight,Foretell a storm to last till night.A cloud in proper season poursHis blessings down in fruitful showers;But woman was by fate design'dTo pour down curses on mankind.When Sirius o'er the welkin rages,Our kindly help his fire assuages;But woman is a cursed inflamer,No parish ducking-stool can tame her:To kindle strife, dame Nature taught her;Like fireworks, she can burn in water.For fickleness how durst you blame us,Who for our constancy are famous?You'll see a cloud in gentle weatherKeep the same face an hour together;While women, if it could be reckon'd,Change every feature every second.Observe our figure in a morning,Of foul or fair we give you warning;But can you guess from women's airOne minute, whether foul or fair?Go read in ancient books enroll'dWhat honours we possess'd of old.To disappoint Ixion's rapeJove dress'd a cloud in Juno's shape;Which when he had enjoy'd, he swore,No goddess could have pleased him more;No difference could he find betweenHis cloud and Jove's imperial queen;His cloud produced a race of Centaurs,Famed for a thousand bold adventures;From us descended ab origine,By learned authors, called nubigenae;But say, what earthly nymph do you know,So beautiful to pass for Juno?Before Æneas durst aspireTo court her majesty of Tyre,His mother begg'd of us to dress him,That Dido might the more caress him:A coat we gave him, dyed in grain,A flaxen wig, and clouded cane,(The wig was powder'd round with sleet,Which fell in clouds beneath his feet)With which he made a tearing show;And Dido quickly smoked the beau.Among your females make inquiries,What nymph on earth so fair as Iris?With heavenly beauty so endow'd?And yet her father is a cloud.We dress'd her in a gold brocade,Befitting Juno's favourite maid.'Tis known that Socrates the wiseAdored us clouds as deities:To us he made his daily prayers,As Aristophanes declares;From Jupiter took all dominion,And died defending his opinion.By his authority 'tis plainYou worship other gods in vain;And from your own experience knowWe govern all things there below.You follow where we please to guide;O'er all your passions we preside,Can raise them up, or sink them down,As we think fit to smile or frown:And, just as we dispose 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 allegianceBecause we dwell in higher regions.You find the gods in Homer dwellIn seas and streams, 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 placed,Are loftier by a mile at least:And, when Apollo struts on Pindus,We see him from our kitchen windows;Or, to Parnassus looking down,Can piss upon his laurel crown.Fate never form'd the gods to fly;In vehicles they mount the sky:When Jove would some 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 stirs not out of door,Without his lacquer'd coach and four;And jealous Juno, ever snarling,Is drawn by peacocks in her berlin:But we can fly where'er we please,O'er cities, rivers, hills, and seas:From east to west the world we roam,And in all climates are at home;With care provide you as we goWith sunshine, rain, and hail, or snow.You, when it rains, like fools, believeJove pisses on you through a sieve:An idle tale, 'tis no such matter;We only dip a sponge in water,Then squeeze it close between our thumbs,And shake it well, and down it comes;As you shall to your sorrow know;We'll watch your steps where'er you go;And, since we find you walk a-foot,We'll soundly souse your frieze surtout.'Tis but by our peculiar grace,That Phoebus ever shows his face;For, when we please, we open wideOur curtains blue from side to side;And then how saucily he showsHis brazen face and fiery nose;And gives himself a haughty air,As if he made the weather fair!'Tis sung, wherever Celia treads,The violets ope their purple heads;The roses blow, the cowslip springs;'Tis sung; but we know better things.'Tis true, a woman on her mettleWill often piss upon a nettle;But though we own she makes it wetter,The nettle never thrives the better;While we, by soft prolific showers,Can every spring produce you flowers.Your poets, Chloe's beauty height'ning,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 senseAt poets' flights to take offence;Nor can hyperboles demean us;Each drab has been compared to Venus.We own your verses are melodious;But such comparisons are odious.Though you compare your trull to us,But think how damnably you errWhen you compare us clouds to her;From whence you draw such bold conclusions;But poets love profuse allusions.And, if you now so little spare us,Who knows how soon you may compare usTo Chartres, Walpole, or a king,If once we let you have your swing.Such wicked insolence appearsOffensive to all pious ears.To flatter women by a metaphor!What profit could you hope to get of her?And, for her sake, turn base detractorAgainst your greatest benefactor.But we shall keep revenge in storeIf ever you provoke us more:For, since we know you walk a-foot,We'll soundly drench your frieze surtout;Or may we never thunder throw,Nor souse to death a birth-day beau.We own your verses are melodious;