Till the Treasury cushions seemed cold as lead,
And hard as a prisoner’s timber bed.
By Jove, how I wish I could wheel you there
And lounge on your cushions, my new Arm-chair!
But Harcourt’s waiting, and I must go;
He can’t stand his Whitebait cold, you know.
Were it not for the feed and these swells at my side,
My talk might flow on in a lava-like tide.
Ah! excuse this tear that bedews my cheek,
I should very much like to talk on for a week.