| Citation |
VGW(RI.773.042
20 May 1773:21 (367)
Ah! why did not kind fate ordain me birth
In some cold corner of Novanglian earth:
Nor thus impel, while sober ardours teaze,
Almost to wish myself in hell for ease?
VERSES IN PRAISE OF WINTER.
The season now is coming on
When Bob to Hell will run;
Nay, stay there for an aion,
T'avoid the scorching sun.
. . . [12 more lines, signed] B. G.
. . . [4 more lines from first titles, then:]
Once on a time, the muses say,
Their Pegasus did go astray,
And that to him an old field mare
Did a Rozinate bear:
. . . [26 more lines, signed] L. F.
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