A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES.

WITH USEFUL ANNOTATIONS,

DR. THOMAS SHERIDAN.

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

I OFTEN tried in vain to find
A similet for womankind,
A simile, I mean, to fit 'em,
In every circumstance to hit 'em. I
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, s they discharge their thnnder:
So, when the alarum-bell is rung,

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 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 poutingi gloom
She seems to darken all the room;
Again she's pleased, his fear's beguiled,
And all is clear when she has smiled.
In this they're wondrously alike,
(I hope this simile will strike)
Though in the darkest dumps T you view them,
Stay but a moment, you 'll see through thein.

a
The clouds are apt to make reflection,
And frequently produce infection:

***

Ay, but my geese lay eggs for me, replies his friend ; So does my wife bear chil. dren, said Socrates.—Diog. Laert.

Being asked at another time, by a friend, how he could bear her tongue, he Baid, she was of this use to him, that she taught him to bear the impertinences of others with more case when he went abroad.-Plat. de Capiend. ex. host. utilit.

Socrates invited his friend Euthymedus to suppor. Xantippe, in great rage, went into them, and overset the table. Euthymedus, rising in a passion to go off, My dear friend, stay, said Socrates, did not a hen do the same thing at your house the other day, and did I show any resentment ?- Plat. de ira cohibenda.

I could give many more instances of her termagancy and his philosophy, if buch a proceeding might not look as if I were glad of an opportunity to expose the fair sex; but, to show that I have no such design, I declare solemnly, that I had much worse stories to tell of her behavior to her husband, which I rather passed over, on account of the great esteem which I bear the ladies, especially those in the honorable station of matrimony.

• Ramble.
+ Not vomiting.
# Thrusting out the lip.

$ This is to be understood not in the sense of wort, when brewers put yeast or barm in it; but its true meaning is, deceived or cheated. | Hit your fancy.

Sullen fits. We have a merry jig called Dumpty-Deary, invented to rouse ladies from the damps.

So Celia, with small provocation,
.Blasts every neighbor'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 colors 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 vapors 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. I
Grave matrons are like clouds of snow,
Where words fall thick, and soft, and slow;
While brisk coquettes,ş 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.

a

Shock's fate I mourn; poor Shock is now no more:
Ye Muses! mourn: ye Chambermaids ! deplore.
Unhappy Shock! yet more unhappy fair,
Doom'd to survive thy joy and only care.
Thy wretched fingers now no more shall deck,
And tie the favorite ribbon round his neck;
No more thy hand shall smooth his glossy hair,
And comb the wavings of his pendent ear.
Yet cease thy flowing grief, forsaken maid !
All mortal pleasures in a moment fade :
Our surest hope is in an hour destroy'd,
And love, best gift of Heaven, not long enjoy'd.

Methinks I see her frantic with despair,
Her streaming eyes, wrung hands, and flowing hair.
Her Mechlin pinners, rent, the floor bestrow,
And her torn fan gives real signs of woe.
Hence, Superstition ! that tormenting guest,
That haunts with fancied fears the coward breast;
No dread events upon this fate attend,
Stream eyes no more, no more thy tresses rend.
Though certain omens oft forewarn a state,
And dying lions show the monarch's fate,
Why should such fears bid Celia's sorrow rise ?
For when a lapdog falls, no lover dies.

Cease, Celia, cease; restrain thy flowing tears,
Some warmer passion will dispel thy cares.
In man you'll find a more substantial bliss,

More grateful toying, and a sweeter kiss. * I hope none will be so uncomplaisant to the ladies as to think these compar. isons are odious.

He's dead. Oh! lay him gently in the ground !
And may his tomb be by this verse renown'd:
“Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid,
Who fawn'd like man, bat ne'er like man betray'd."

THE RAZOR SELLER.

PETER PINDAR.

A FELLOW in a market town,
Must musical, cried razors up and down,

And offered twelve for eighteen-pence;
Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,

As every man would buy, with cash and sense.
A country bumpkin the great offer heard:
Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard,

That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose •
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,

“ This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

a

“No niatter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave ;

It certainly will be a monstrous prize.”
So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
Smiling in heart and soul, content,

And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,

Just like a hedger cutting furze :
'Twas a vile razor 1-then the rest he tried-
All were imposters--"Ah," Hodge sighed !

“I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse."

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,

He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore, Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry

faces, And cursed cach razor's body o'er and o'er :