Another board of oysters, ladye mine!
To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup.
These mute inglorious Miltons are divine!
And as I here in slippered ease recline,
Quaffing of Perkins’ Entire my fill,
I sigh not for the nymph of Aganippe’s rill.
But these remarks are neither here nor there.
Where was I? Oh, I see—old Southey’s dead!
They’ll want some bard to fill the vacant chair,
And drain the annual butt—and oh, what head