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 allegiance
Because we dwell in higher regions. 
You find the gods in Homer dwell
In 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 go
With sunshine, rain, and hail, or snow. 
You, when it rains, like fools, believe
Jove 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 wide
Our curtains blue from side to side;
And then how saucily he shows
His 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 mettle
Will 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 sense
At 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.
[Observe the case—­I state it thus: 
Though you compare your trull to us,
But think how damnably you err
When you compare us clouds to her;