Smith, take a fresh cigar!
Jones, the tobacco-jar!
Here's to thee, Bacon!
BEER.
(BYRON)
In those old days which poets say were golden—
(Perhaps they laid the gilding on themselves:
And, if they did, I'm all the more beholden
To those brown dwellers in my dusty shelves,
Who talk to me 'in language quaint and olden'