Misshapen, quiv’ring jellies, doughy tarts,
The fruit but scant, the paste too thick by far.
(Pale cream accompanies, whose “turn” is come,)
Dessert—a prematurely-shrivelled pine,
Tom from its tropic soil in early youth;
Dried fruits, and nuts that, cracking, leave but dust.
The end of this unpalatable dinner
Is coffee weak and full of grounds; and so
Our last hope flies, our time is come. We go
With teeth, with eyes, with taste, unsatisfied.