Classic Poem

I often tried in vain to find
A simile for womankind—
A simile, I mean, to fit 'em,
In every circumstance to hit 'em.
Through every beast and bird I went;
I ransacked 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 bell'wing, they discharge their thunder;
So, when the alarm-bell 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 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 pleased, his fear's beguiled,
And all is clear when she has smiled.
In this they're wondrously alike
(I hope the simile will strike);
Though in the distant dumps you view 'em,
Stay but a moment, you'll see through 'em.

The clouds are apt to make reflection,
And frequently produce infection;
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 arrayed;
What various colors are displayed:
The pink, the rose, the vi'let'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 birthday 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 fringed with borrowed gold;
And this is many a lady's case,
Who flaunts about in borrowed 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 heav'n 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.