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Impromptu On Mrs. Riddell's Birthday

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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.
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Saturday, October 25, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: birthday
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7/28/2021 2:21:56 AM # 1.0.0.666