438. Impromptu on Mrs. Riddell’s Birthday
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LD 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.
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