To the slow gliding months, when every eye
Wears symptoms of a sober jollity;
And every hand is ready to present
Some service in a real compliment.
While some in golden letters write their love,
Some speak affection by a ring or glove,
Or pins and points, (for e’en the peasant may,
After his ruder fashion, be as gay
As the brisk courtly Sir,) and thinks that he
Cannot, without a gross absurdity,