The fogs of England have been at all times the complaint of foreigners.
Gondomar, the Spanish ambassador, when some one who was going to Spain
waited on him to ask whether he had any commands, replied, “Only my
compliments to the sun, whom I have not seen since I came to
England.”--Carraccioli, the Neapolitan minister here, a man of a good
deal of conversation and wit, used to say, that the only _ripe fruit_ he
had seen in England were _roasted apples!_ and in a conversation with
George II. he took the liberty of preferring the _moon_ of Naples to the
_sun_ of England.
* * * * *
_On seeing a_ LADY _walking in the_ SNOW.
I saw fair JULIA walk alone,
When feather’d rain came softly down,
’Twas JOVE descending from his tower,
To court her in a silver shower,
A wanton flake flew on her breast,
As happy dove into its nest,
But rivall’d by the whiteness there,
For grief dissolv’d into a tear,
And falling to her garment’s hem,
To deck her waist, froze to a gem.
* * * * *