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.