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.