e cup without an ear;
A batter'd, shatter'd ash bedstead;
A box of deal, without a lid;
A pair of tongs, but out of joint;
A back-sword poker, without point;
A pot that's crack'd across, around,
With an old knotted garter bound;
An iron lock, without a key;
A wig, with hanging, grown quite grey;
A curtain, worn to half a stripe;
A pair of bellows, without pipe;
A dish, which might good meat afford once;
An Ovid, and an old Concordance;
A bottle-bottom, wooden-platter
One is for meal, and one for water;
There likewise is a copper skillet,
Which runs as fast out as you fill it;
A candlestick, snuff-dish, and save-all,
And thus his household goods you have all.
These, to your lordship, as a friend,
'Till you have built, I freely lend:
They'll serve your lordship for a shift;
Why not as well as Doctor Swift?

[Footnote 1: This poem was written by Sheridan, who had it presented to
the Bishop by a beggar, in the form of a petition, to Swift's great
surprise, who was in the carriage with his Lordship at the
time.--_Scott._]

A NEW SIMILE FOR THE LADIES
WITH USEFUL ANNOTATIONS, BY DR. SHERIDAN[1]
1733

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

I often tried in vain to find
A simile[2] for womankind,
A simile, I mean, to fit 'em,
In every circumstance to hit 'em.[3]
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[4] 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?[5]
Clouds keep the stoutest mortals under,
When, bellowing,[6] they discharge their thunder:
So, when the alarum-bell is rung,
Of Xanti's[7] 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:[8]
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,[9]
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[10] gloom
She seems to darken all the room;
Again she's pleased