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.