Come into this quiet box, with hot water in a batter’d pewter jug,
Over whose beer-stain’d table are strewn many particles of crust;
Here, upon this wooden peg, hang up thy hat and Chesterfield,
Order a pint of stout, or a go of grog, and rest for half-an-hour.
Behold! I would stop a short time in this buzzing crowd of visitors,
Though wrapp’d up in a mackintosh, yet are the seams and pockets pervious;
But into the foam of this goodly glass I dip my beak,
And receive its contents as nectar, yet the tap is Barclay’s.
Under its cheerful influence I shall, before long, get loquacious,
And mingle the fashion of my speech with froth-built snatches of philosophy!