But when the winged Thunder takes his way
From the cold North, and East and West ingage,
And at their Frontiers meet with equal rage,
The Clouds are crush'd, a glut of gather'd Rain
The hollow Ditches fills, and floats the Plain,
And Sailors furl their dropping Sheets amain.
Wet weather seldom hurts the most unwise,
So plain the Signs, such Prophets are the Skies:
The wary Crane foresees it first, and sails
Above the Storm, and leaves the lowly Vales:
The Cow looks up, and from afar can find
The change of Heav'n, and snuffs it in the Wind.
The Swallow skims the River's watry Face,
The Frogs renew the Croaks of their loquacious Race.
The careful Ant her secret Cell forsakes,
And drags her Egs along the narrow Tracks.
At either Horn the Rainbow drinks the Flood,
Huge Flocks of rising Rooks forsake their Food,
And, crying, seek the Shelter of the Wood.
Besides, the sev'ral sorts of watry Fowls,
That swim the Seas, or haunt the standing Pools:
The Swans that sail along the Silver Flood,
And dive with stretching Necks to search their Food,
Then lave their Backs with sprinkling Dews in vain,
And stem the Stream to meet the promis'd Rain.
The Crow with clam'rous Cries the Show'r demands,
And single stalks along the Desart Sands.
The nightly Virgin, while her Wheel she plies,
Foresees the Storm impending in the Skies,
When sparkling lamps their sputt'ring Light advance,
And in the Sockets Oyly Bubbles dance.