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.