Presumptuous bard! how could you dare A woman with a cloud compare? Strange pride and insolence you show Inferior mortals there below. And is our thunder in your ears So 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. [How useful were a woman's thunder, 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, She ne'er was known to burst a lace.] 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 bespeaks Fair weather when the morning breaks; But women in a cloudy plight, Foretell a storm to last till night. A cloud in proper season pours His blessings down in fruitful showers; But woman was by fate design'd To pour down curses on mankind. When Sirius[2] 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 weather Keep 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 air One minute, whether foul or fair? Go read in ancient books enroll'd What honours we possess'd of old. To disappoint Ixion's[3] rape Jove 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 between His 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 aspire To 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 wise