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.