And tea, not port, at five o'clock,
Is what we all adore.
In coffee, tea, and lemon squash
The Muse ne'er dips her laurel,
So what we write is either "wash,"
Or hopelessly immoral.
When life, each quarter, is made out
Of still more jaundiced hue,
The needy bard must join the shout,
His verse be jaundiced too: