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Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.

I have heard a greater storm in a boiling pot.

The earth is rocking, the skies are riven-- Jove in a passion, in god-like fashion, Is breaking the crystal urns of heaven.

A storm in a cream bowl. - James Butler, first Duke of Ormonde,

He used to raise a storm in a teapot.

Bursts as a wave that from the clouds impends, And swell'd with tempests on the ship descends; White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud Howl o'er the masts, and sing through every shroud: Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears; And instant death on every wave appears.

Roads are wet where'er one wendeth, And with rain the thistle bendeth, And the brook cries like a child! Not a rainbow shines to cheer us; Ah! the sun comes never near us, And the heavens look dark and wile.

Ride the air In whirlwind.

It is a tempest in a tumbler of water.

The winds grow high; Impending tempests charge the sky; The lightning flies, the thunder roars; And big waves lash the frightened shores.

Lightnings, that show the vast and foamy deep, The rending thunders, as they onward roll, The loud winds, that o'er the billows sweep-- Shake the firm nerve, appal the bravest soul!

The storm is master. Man, as a ball, is tossed twixt winds and billows.

Loud o'er my head though awful thunders roll, And vivid lightnings flash from pole to pole, Yet 'tis Thy voice, my God, that bids them fly, Thy arm directs those lightnings through the sky. Then let the good Thy mighty name revere, And hardened sinners Thy just vengeance fear.

O Cicero, I have seen tempests when the scolding winds Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen Th' ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam To be exalted with the threat'ning clouds; But never till to-night, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire.

Why, now blow wind, swell billow, and swim bark! The storm is up, and all is on the hazard.

As far as could ken thy chalky cliffs, When from thy shore the tempest beat us back, I stood upon the hatches in the storm, And when the dusky sky began to rob My earnest-gaping sight of thy land's view, I took a costly jewel from my neck, A heart it was, bound in with diamonds, And threw it toward thy land.

A little gale will soon disperse that cloud And blow it to the source from whence it came. Thy very beams will dry those vapors up, For every cloud engenders not a storm.

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks. Rage, blow, You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drenched our steeples, downed the cocks.

Merciful heaven, Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt Splits the unwedgeable and gnarled oak Than the soft myrtle; but man, proud man, Dressed in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assured His glassy essence--like an angry ape Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As makes the angels weep; who, with our spleens, would all themselves laugh mortal.

Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, Making it momentany as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, Brief as the lightning in the collied night, That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!' The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion.