Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/192



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

OFTEN tried in vain to find A simile for womankind, A simile I meant to fit 'em, In every circumstance to hit 'em. 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 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? Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under, When bellowing they discharge their thunder: So when the alarumbell is rung Of Xanti's 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