A Summer's Tale, one would have thought, Some Summer Fruitage might have brought; But this our Hope deceives: Not even here one vernal Breeze, No Buds of Spring, no verdant Trees, But all autumnal Leaves.
No chearful Sea-Coal Fire remains, To thaw our frozen Ears and Veins, But all looks dead and cold: The Stage is "cumber'd," and the "Land," This Summer's Tale none understand. Dull as a Tale twice told.
If not a Summer, some small Spring, We might expect in such a Thing, If Phoebus had thought fit: But pelting Hail, and Snow, and Rain, Distract us, like Amelia's* Brain, Mad with such Winter Wit.
