As thus they wrangled,  came by;
(There's none that paint him such as I,
For what the Fabling  sung
Makes  old, when  was young.)
As yet his Winters had not shed
Their silver Honours on his Head;
He just had got his Pinions free
From his old Sire
A Serpent girdled round he wore,
The Tail within the Mouth before;
By which our  are clear
That learned  meant the Year.
A Staff he carry'd, where on high
A Glass was fix'd to measure by,
As Amber Boxes made a Show
For Heads of Canes an Age ago.
His Vest, for Day, and Night, was py'd;
A bending Sickle arm'd his Side;
And Spring's new Months his Train adorn;
The other Seasons were unborn.