Indeed, as much as I love to have summer in summer, 

 I am tired of this weather — it parches the leaves, makes 

 the turf crisp, claps the doors, blows the papers about, 

 and keeps one in a constant mist that gives no dew but 

 might as well be smoke. The sun sets like a pewter 

 plate, red-hot; and then in a moment, appears the moon, 

 at a distance of the same complexion, just as the same 

 orb in a moving picture serves for both. 

 — Horace Walpou; to the Countess of Upper Ossort, 

 Strawberry Hill, July 15, 1783. 



