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on mrs. riddell's birthday
4th november 1793.
old winter, with his frosty beard,
thus once to jove his prayer preferred:
“what have i done of all the year,
to bear this hated doom severe?
my cheerless suns no pleasure know;
night's horrid car drags, dreary slow;
my dismal months no joys are crowning,
but spleeny english hanging, drowning.
“now jove, for once be mighty civil.
to counterbalance all this evil;
give me, and i've no more to say,
give me maria's natal day!
that brilliant gift shall so enrich me,
spring, summer, autumn, cannot match me.”
“'tis done!” says jove; so ends my story,
and winter once rejoiced in glory.