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 AEneas 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
Adored 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 plain
You worship other gods in vain;
And from your own experience know
We 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: