Blow , swift south wind, from those green hills of Surrey,
Which gird our London. In the vernal time
Thy fresh breath greets us 'mid our business flurry,
Fragrant as pendent blossom of the lime.
Ere to the north thy joyous pinions hurry,
Greet a poor scribbler, who in octave rhyme
Is fain to tell a most astounding narrative,
And hails thee, Notus, as a fit preparative.