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;
Nights 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 Ive no more to say,
Give me Marias 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.
