Impromptu, On Mrs. R----'s Birthday.

    Old Winter, with his frosty beard,
    Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd,
    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.