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

Who thought he'd won The field as certain as a gun.

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.

Once storms get into the Gulf of Mexico, I'm aware of only one storm on record that dissipated. It has almost nowhere to go except land somewhere.

At first, heard solemn o'er the verge of Heaven, The Tempest growls; but as it nearer comes, And rolls its awful burden on the wind, The Lightnings flash a larger curve, and more The Noise astounds; till overhead a sheet Of livid flame discloses wide, then shuts, And opens wider; shuts and opens still Expansive, wrapping ether in a blaze. Follows the loosen'd aggravated Roar, Enlarging, deepening, mingling, peal on peal, Crush'd, horrible, convulsing Heaven and Earth.

As Lord Chesterfield said of the generals of his day, 'I only hope that when the enemy reads the list of their names, he trembles as I do.'