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.