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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 counter balance all this evil; Give me, and I've no more to say, Give me Maria's natal day! That brilliant gift will 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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