There, DICK, what a breakfast!--oh! not like your ghost
Of a breakfast in England, your curst tea and toast;
But a side-board, you dog, where one's eye roves about,
Like a turk's in the Haram, and thence singles out
One's pate of larks, just to tune up the throat,
One's small limbs of chickens, done _en papillote_.
One's erudite cutlets, drest all ways but plain,
Or one's kidneys--imagine, DICK--done with champagne!
Then, some glasses of _Beaune_, to dilute--or, mayhap,
_Chambertin_,[2]which you know's the pet tipple of NAP,
And which Dad, by the by, that legitimate stickler,
Much scruples to taste, but I'm not so partic'lar.--
Your coffee comes next, by prescription: and then DICK's
The coffee's ne'er-failing and glorious appendix,
(If books had but such, my old Grecian, depend on't,
I'd swallow e'en Watkins', for sake of the end on't,)
A neat glass of _parfait-amour_, which one sips
Just as if bottled velvet tipt over one's lips.
This repast being ended, and _paid for_--(how odd!
Till a man's used to paying, there's something so queer in't!)--
The sun now well out, and the girls all abroad,
And the world enough aired for us Nobs to appear in't,
We lounge up the boulevards, where--oh! DICK, the phizzes,
The turn-outs, we meet--what a nation of quizzes!
Here toddles along some old figure of fun,
With a coat you might date Anno Domini 1.
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