Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 8.djvu/194

184 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 borrowed 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 name. Let me proclaim it then aloud, That every woman is a cloud. ANSWER