His country was his dearest mother,
And every virtuous man his brother;
Through modesty or awkward shame
(For which he owns himself to blame),
He found the wisest man he could,
Without respect to friends or blood;
Nor ever acts on private views,
When he has liberty to choosè.

The Sharper swore he hated play,
Except to pass an hour away:
And well he might; for, to his cost,
By want of skill he always lost;

He heard there was a club of cheats,
Who had contrived a thousand feats;
Could change the stock, or cog a die,
And thus deceive the sharpest eye:
Nor wonder how his fortune sunk,
His brothers fleece him when he 's drunk.

I own the moral not exact,

Besides, the tale is false, in fact;

And so absurd, that could I raise up,

From fields Elysian, fabling Æsop,
I would accuse him to his face,
For libeling the four-foot race.
Creatures of every kind but ours

Well comprehend their natural powers,
While we, whom reason ought to sway,
Mistake our talents every day.

The Ass was never known so stupid,
To act the part of Tray or Cupid ;
Nor leaps upon his master's lap,
There to be stroked, and fed with pap,
As Æsop would the world persuade;
He better understands his trade:
Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles,
But carries loads, and feeds on thistles.
Our author's meaning, I presume, is
A creature bipes et implumis;
Wherein the moralist design'd
A compliment on human kind;
For here he owns, that now and then
Beasts may degenerate into men.

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.‡
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 clouds 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 alarum-bell is rung,

Of Xanti's** everlasting tongue,

* The following foot-notes, which appear to be Dr. Sheridan's, are replaced from the Irish edition. They hit the ignorance of the ladies in that age.

+ Most ladies, in reading, call this word a smile; but they are to note, it consists of three syllables, sim-i-le. In English, a likeness.

Not to hurt them.

§ Not like a gun or pistol.

This is not meant as to shooting, but resolving.

¶ This word is not here to be understood of a bull, but a cloud, which makes a noise like a bull, when it thunders.

** Xanti, a nick-name of Xantippe, that scold of glorious memory, who never let poor Socrates have one moment's peace of mind; yet with unexampled patience he bore her pestilential tongue. I shall beg the ladies' pardon if I insert a few passages concerning her; and at the same time I assure them it is not to lesson those of the present age, who are possessed of the like laudable talents; for I will confess, that I know three in the city of Dublin, no way inferior to Xantippe, but that they have not as great men to work upon.

When a friend asked Socrates how he could bear the scolding of his wife Xantippe, he retorted, and asked him how he could bear the gaggling of his geese.

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 this 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:

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

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

Socrates invited his friend Euthymedus to supper. 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 such 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 dumps.

** Reflection of the sun.

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.‡
Grave matrons are like clouds of snow,
Where 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.

Motherly woman.

+ Not grace before and after meat, nor their graces the duchesses, but the Graces which attended on Venus.

‡ Not Flanders-lace, but gold and silver lace. By borrowed, I mean such as run into honest tradesmen's debts, for which they were not able to pay, as many of them did for French silver lace, against the last birth-day. Vide the shopkeepers' books.

§ Girls who love to hear themselves prate, and put on a number of monkeyairs to catch men.

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.

ON A LAPDOG.

JOHN GAY.

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 comparisons are odious.

+ Tell the whole world; not to proclaim them as robbers and rapparees.