A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES
WITH USEFUL ANNOTATIONS, BY DR. SHERIDAN[1]
1733

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

I often tried in vain to find
A simile[2] for womankind,
A simile, I mean, to fit ’em,
In every circumstance to hit ’em.[3]
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[4] 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?[5]
  Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under,
When, bellowing,[6] they discharge their thunder: 
So, when the alarum-bell is rung,
Of Xanti’s[7] everlasting tongue,
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:[8]
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,[9]
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[10] gloom
She seems to darken all the room;
Again she’s pleased, his fear’s beguiled,[11]
And all is clear when she has smiled. 
In this they’re wondrously alike,
(I hope the simile will strike,)[12]
Though in the darkest dumps[13] you view them,
Stay but a moment, you’ll see through them. 
  The clouds are apt to make reflection,[14]
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[15] 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,[16]
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 vapours rise,
We see them dropping from your eyes. 
  In evening fair you may behold
The clouds are fringed with borrow’d gold;
And this is many a lady’s case,
Who flaunts about in borrow’d lace.[17]
  Grave matrons are like clouds of snow,