Clouds weep, as they do, without pain; And what are tears but women's rain? The clouds about the welkin roam; 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
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 gloom
She seems to darken all the room;
Again she's pleas'd, his fears beguil'd,
And all is clear when she has smil'd.
In this they're wondrously alike
(I hope the simile will strike);
Though in the darkest dumps you view them,
Stay but a moment, you'll see through them.
The clouds are apt to make reflection,
And frequently produce infection;
So Cælia, with small provocation,
Blasts every neighbour's reputation.

The clouds delight in gaudy show
(For they, like ladies, have their bow);
The gravest matron 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,
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 fring'd with borrow'd gold;
And this is many a lady's case,
Who flaunts about in borrow'd lace.

Grave matrons are like clouds of snow,
Their words fall thick, and soft, and slow;
While brisk coquettes, like rattling hail,
Our ears on every side assail.

Clouds, when they intercept our sight,
Deprive us of celestial light:
So when my Chloe I pursue,
No Heaven besides I have in view.
Thus, on comparison, you see,
In every instance they agree,
So like, so very much the same,
That one may go by t' other's naine.
Let me proclaim it then aloud,
That every woman is a cloud.

ANSWER. BY DR. SWIFT.

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 thu der thrice a year;
The bolt discharg'd, the sky grows clear:
But every sublunary dowdy,

The more she scolds, the more she 's cloudy.
Some critic, may object, perhaps,
That clouds are blam'd for giving claps;
But what, alas! are claps ethercal,
Compar'd 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 o'er the welkin rages,
Our kindly help his fire assuages;
But woman is a curst inflamer,
No parish ducking-stool can tame her:
To kindle strife, dame Nature taught her;
Like fire-works, 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 woman'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 rape,
Jove drest a cloud in Juno's shape;
Which when he had enjoy'd, he swore.
No goddess could have pleas'd him more;
No difference could he find between
His cloud and Jove's imperial queen :
His cloud produc'd a race of Centaurs,
Fam'd for a thousand bold adventures;
From us descended ab origine,

By learned authors call'd nubigenæ,
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, dy'd 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 smok'd 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 doud

We drest her in a gold brocade, Befitting Juno's favourite maid.

'Tis known, that Socrates the wise
Ador'd us clouds as deities:
To us he made his daily prayers,
As Aristophanes declares;
From Jupiter took all dominion,
And dy'd 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:
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 plac'd,

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.

Tate 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 lacker'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, hill, 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 sun-shine, 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 spunge in water;
Then squeeze it close between our thumbs,
And shake it well, and down it comes.
As you sha!! 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 frize-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 Cælia 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 heightening,
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 compar'd to Venus.
We own your verses are melodious;

But such comparisons are odious.

A VINDICATION OF THE LIBEL:

1

A NEW BALLAD, WRITTEN BY A SHOE-BOY, ON AN
ATTORNEY WHO WAS FORMERLY A SHOE-BOY,
Qui color ater erat, nunc est contrarius atro.
WITH singing of ballads, and crying of news,
With whitening of buckles, and blacking of shoes,
Did Hartley set out, both shoeless and shirtless,
And moneyless too, but not very dirtless;
Two pence he had gotten by begging, that 's all;
One bought him a brush, and one a black ball;
For clouts at a loss he could not be much,
The clothes on his back as being but such;
Thus vamp'd and accoutred, with clouts, ball, and
He gallantly ventur'd his fortune to push : [brusk,
Vespasian thus, being bespatter'd with dirt,
Was omen'd to be Rome's emperor for 't.
But as a wise fidler is noted, you know,

To have a good couple of strings to one bow;

So Hartley judiciously thought it too little,

[news!

To live by the sweat of his hands and his spittle:
He finds out another profession as fit.
And strait he becomes a retailer of wit.
One day he cried-"Murders, and songs, and great
Another as loudly--" Here blacken your shoes!"
At Domvile's 2 full often he fed upon bits,
For winding of jacks up, and turning of spits;
Lick'd all the plates round, had many a grubbing,
And now and then got from the cook-maid a drubbing:
Such bastings effect upon him could have noue;
The dog will be patient, that 's struck with a bone.
Sir Thomas, observing this Hartley withal
So expert and so active at brushes and ball,
Was mov'd with compassion, and thought it a pity
A youth should be lost, that had been so witty:
Without more ado, he vamps up my spark,
And now we'll suppose him an eminent clerk;
Suppose him an adept in all the degrees

Of scribbling cum dasho, and hooking of fees;

By JAMES BLACK-WELL, Operator for the feet.

I SING the man of courage try'd,
O'er-run with ignorance and pride,
Who boldly hunted out disgrace

With canker'd mind and hideous face;

The first who made (let none deny it)
The libel-vending rogues be quiet.

The fact was glorious, we must own,
For Hartley was before unknown.
Contemn'd I mean ;-for who would chuse
So vile a subject for the Muse?

'Twas once the noblest of his wishes
To fill his paunch with scraps from dishes,
For which he 'd parch before the grate,
Or wind the jack's slow-rising weight
(Such toils as best his talents fit),
Or polish shoes, or turn the spit:
But, unexpectedly grown rich in
Squire Domvile's family and kitchen,
He pants to eternize his name,
And takes the dirty road to fame';
Believes that persecuting wit
Will prove the surest way to it;
So, with a colonel at his back,
The Libel feels his first attack;
He calls it a seditious paper,
Writ by another patriot Drapier;

Then raves and blunders nonsense thicker
Than aldermen o'ercharg'd with liquor;
And all this with design, no doubt,
To hear his praises hawk'd about

To send his name through every street,
Which erst he roam'd with dirty feet;
Well pleas'd to live to future times,
Though but in keen satiric rhymes.

So Ajax, who, for aught we know,
Was justice many years ago,
And minding then no earthly things,
But killing libelers of kings;
Or, if he wanted work to do,
To run a bawling news-boy through;
Yet he, when wrapp'd up in a cloud,
Entreated father Jove aloud,
Only in light to show his face,
Though it might tend to his disgrace.
And so th' Ephesian villain fir'd
The temple which the world admir'd,
Contemning death, despising shame,
To gain an ever-odious name.

1 Colonel Ker, a mere Scotchman, lieutenantcolonel to lord Harrington's regiment of dragoons, who made a news-boy evidence against the printer. IRISH ED.

ALL

DR. SHERIDAN'S BALLAD

ON BALLYSPELLIN 1.

you that would refine your blood,
As pure as fam'd Llewellyn,
By waters clear, come every year;
To drink at Ballyspellin.

Though pox or itch your skins enrich
With rubies past the telling,
'Twill clear your skin before you 've been
A month at Ballyspellin.

If lady's cheek be green as leek
When she comes from her dwelling,
The kindling rose within it glows
When she's at Ballyspellin.

The sooty brown, who comes from town,
Grows here as fair as Helen;
Then back she goes, to kill the beaux
By dint of Ballyspellin.

Our ladies are as fresh and fair

As rose, or bright dunkelling;
And Mars might make a fair mistake,
Were he at Ballyspellin.

We men submit as they think fit,

And here is no rebelling:

The reason 's plain; the ladies reign,
They're queens at Ballyspellin

By matchless charms, unconquer'd arms,
They have the way of quelling
Such desperate foes as dare oppose
Their power at Ballyspellin.

Cold water turns to fire and burns,

I know because I fell in

A stream which came from one bright dame
Who drank at Ballyspellin.

Fine beaux advance, equipt for dance,
To bring their Anne or Nell in
With so much grace, I'm sure no place
Can vie with Ballyspellin.

No politics, no subtle tricks,

No man his country selling:

We eat, we drink, we never think
Of these at Ballyspellin.

The troubled mind, the puff'd with wind,
Do all come here pell-mell in;
And they are sure to work their cure

By drinking Ballyspellin.

Though dropsy fills you to the gills,

From chin to toe though swelling; Pour in, pour out, you cannot doubt

A cure at Ballyspellin.

Death throws no darts through all these parts,
No sextons here are knelling:
Come, judge and try, you'll never die,
But live at Ballyspellin;

Except you feel darts tipt with steel,
Which here are every belle in:
When from their eyes sweet ruin flies,
We die at Ballyspellin.

Good cheer, sweet air, much joy, no care,
Your sight, your taste, your smelling,

1 A famous spa in the county of Kilkenny, where the doctor had been to drink the waters with a favourite Lady. N.

BALLYSPELLIN.. :

525

BY DR. SWIFT. Į

DARZ you dispute, you saucy brute,

And think there's no refelling
Your scurvy lays, and senseless praise

You give to Ballyspellin?

Howe'er you bounce, I here pronounce,
Your medicine is repelling;
Your water's mud, and sours the blood
When drunk at Ballyspellin.

Those pocky drabs, to cure their scabs,
You thither are compelling,

Will back be sent, worse than they went.
From nasty Ballyspellin.

Llewellyn why? As well may I

Name honest doctor Pellin;

So hard sometimes you tug for rhymes,
To bring in Ballyspellin.

No subject fit to try your wit,

When you went colonelling,

But dull intrigues 'twixt jades and teagues
That met at Ballyspellin.

Our lasses fair, say what you dare,
Who sowing make with shelling,

At Market-hill more beaux can kill,
Than yours at Ballyspellin

Would I was whipt when Sheelah stript

To wash herself our well in;

A bum so white ne'er came in sight,

At paltry Ballyspellin.

Your mawkins there smocks hempen wear,
Of holland not an ell in ;

No, not a rag, whate'er you brag,

Is found at Ballyspellin,

But Tom will prate at any rate,

All other nymphs expelling;
Because he gets a few grisettes

At lousy Ballyspellin,
There's bonny Jane, in yonder lane,

Just o'er against The Bell-inn;
Where can you meet a lass so sweet,
Round all your Ballyspellin?
We have a girl deserves an earl;
She came from Enniskillin:

1 This answer was resented by Dr. Sheridan, as an affront on himself and the lady he attended to the spa.. N.

So fair, so young, no such among
The belles at Ballyspellin.

How would you stare to see her there,
The foggy mist dispelling,
That clouds the brows of every blowse
Who lives at Ballyspellin!

Now as I live I would not give

A stiver for a skellin,

To towse and kiss the fairest miss
That leaks at Ballyspellin.

Whoe'er will raise such lies as these
Deserves a good cudgelling;

Who falsely boasts, of belles and toasts,
At dirty Ballyspellin.

My rhymes, are gone, to all but one,
Which is, our trees are felling;
As proper quite as those you write,
To force in Ballyspellin.

HORACE, PART OF BOOK I. SAT. VI.

PARAPHRASED.

Ir noisy Tom should in the senate prate,
"That he would answer both for church and state;
And, further to demonstrate his affection,
Would take the kingdom into his protection;"

[isle,

All mortals must be curious to enquire,
Who could this coxcomb be, and who his sire?
"What! thou, the spawn of him who sham'd our
That traitor, assassin, informer vile !
Though by the female side 3 you proudly bring,
To mend your breed, the murderer of a king;
What was thy grandsire but a mountaineer,
Who held a cabin for ten groats a year;
Whose master Moore preserv'd him from the halter,
For stealing cows; nor could he read the psalter!
Durst thou, ungrateful, from the senate chace
Thy founder's grandson 6, and usurp his place?
Just Heaven! to see the dunghill bastard brood
Survive in thee, and make the proverb good?!
Then vote a worthy citizen to jail,

In spite of justice, and refuse his bail!"

1 Sir Thomas Prendergast. IRISH ED.

2 The father of sir Thomas P, who engaged in a plot to murder king William III; but, to avoid being hanged, turned informer against his associates, for which he was rewarded with a good estate, and made a baronet. Ibid.

3 Cadogan's family. IRISH ED.

4 A poor thieving cottager, under Mr. Moore, condemned at Clonmell assizes to be hanged for Ibid. stealing cows.

5 The grandfather of Guy Moore, esq. who procured him a pardon. Ibid.

6 Guy Moore was fairly elected member of parliament for Clonmell; but sir Thomas, depending upon his interest with a certain party then prevailing, and since known by the title of Parson-hunters, petitioned the house against him; out of which he was turned, upon pretence of bribery, which the paying of his lawful debts was then voted to be. Ibid. 7" Save a thief from the gallows, and he will cut your throat." Ibid.

Mr. George Faulkner. See the verses in the following page. N.

ON A PRINTER'S

BEING SENT TO NEWGATE.

BETTER we all were in our graves
Than live in slavery to slaves,
Worse than the anarchy at sea,
Where fishes on each other prey;

Where every trout can make as high rants

O'er his inferiors as our tyrants,
And swagger while the coast is clear:
But, should a lordly pike appear,
Away you see the varlet scud,
Or hide his coward snout in mud.
Thus, if a gudgeon meet a roach,
He dare not venture to approach;
Yet still has impudence to rise,
And, like Domitian, leap at flies.

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT1.

WITH a whirl of thought oppress'd,
I sunk from reverie to rest.
An horrid vision seiz'd my head,
I saw the graves give up their dead!
Jove, arm'd with terrours, burst the skies,
And thunder roars, and lightning flies!
Amaz'd, confus'd, its fate unknown,
The world stands trembling at his throne!
While each pale sinner hung his head,
Jove nodding, shook the Heavens, and said:
"Offending race of human-kind,
By nature, reason, learning, blind;
You who, through frailty, stepp'd aside;
And you who never fell, through pride;
You who in different sects were shamm'd,
And come to see each other damn'd,
(So some folk told you, but they knew
No more of Jove's designs than you);
-The world's mad business now is o'er,
And I resent these pranks no more.
-I to such blockheads set my wit!
1 damn such fools!-Go, go, you 're bit."

VERSES SENT TO THE DEAN

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY,

WITH FINE'S HORACE, FINELY BOUND,
BY DR. J. SICAN 2.
-[Horace speaking]

You've read, sir, in poetic strain,
How Varus and the Mantuan swain
Have on my birth-day been invited
(But I was forc'd in verse to write it)
Upon a plain repast to dine,
And taste my old Campanian wine;
But I, who all punctilios hate,
Though long familiar with the great,

1 That this poem is the genuine production of the dean, lord Chesterfield bears ample testimony in his Letter to M. Voltaire, Aug. 27, 1752. N. 2 This ingenious young gentleman was unfortunately murdered in Italy. N.

Nor glory in my reputation,
Am come without an invitation;

And, though I'm us'd to right Falernian,
I'll deign for once to taste Iernian;
But fearing that you might dispute
(Had I put on my common suit)
My breeding and my politesse,
I visit in a birth-day dress;
My coat of purest Turkey red,
With gold embroidery richly spread;
To which I've sure as good pretensions
As Irish lords who starve on pensions.
What though proud ministers of state
Did at your anti-chamber wait;

What though your Oxfords and your St. Johns
Have at your levee paid attendance;
And Peterborough and great Ormond,
With many chiefs who now are dormant,
Have laid aside the general's staff
And public cares, with you to laugh;
Yet I some friends as good can name,
Nor less the darling sons of fame;
For sure my Pollio and Maecenas
Were as good statesmen, Mr. Dean, as
Either your Bolingbroke or Harley,
Though they made Lewis beg a parley:
And as for Mordaunt, your lov'd hero,
I'll match him with my Drusus Nero.
You'll boast, perhaps, your favourite Pope;
But Virgil is as good, I hope.

I own indeed I can't get any

To equal Helsham and Delany;
Since Athens brought forth Socrates,

A Grecian isle Hippocrates;

Since Tully liv'd before my time,

And Galen bless'd another clime.

You'll plead perhaps, at my request,

To be admitted as a guest,

"Your hearing 's bad!"-But why such fears?
I speak to eyes, and not to ears;
And for that reason wisely took
The form you see me in, a book.
Attack'd by slow-devouring moths,
By rage of barbarous Huns and Goths;
By Bentley's notes, my deadliest foes,
By Creech's rhymes and Dunster's prose;
I found my boasted wit and fire
In their rude hands almost expire:
Yet still they but in vain assail'd;
For, had their violence prevail'd,
And in a blast destroy'd my fame,

They would have partly miss'd their aim;
Since all my spirit in thy page

Defies the Vandals of this age.

'Tis yours to save these small remains From future pedants' muddy brains,

And fix my long-uncertain fate,

You best know how-which way?—TRANSLATE.

ON PSYCHE1

Ar two afternoon for our Psyche inquire,
So loitering, so active; so busy, so idle;
Her tea-kettle 's on, and her smock at the fire:
which hath she most need of, a spur or a bridle?

1 Mrs. Sican, a very ingenious well-bred lady," mother to the author of the preceding poem. N.