How the Author sometimes Dines.

And now by your leave I will try to expound it,

In truth as it is and the way that I found it.

My dinner, sometimes, like things transcendental

And things more substantial, like women and wine

A thing is, uncertain, and quite accidental,

And sometimes I wonder, “Oh! where shall I dine?”

It was when reflecting one evening of late,

What tavern or hotel or dining-room skinner,

With table cloth dirty and dirtier plate,

Would give me a nausea and call it a dinner,

I met with Jack Merdle, a name fully known

As good for a million in Stock-gamblers’ Street,

Where none but a nabob or forger high flown

With “bulls” or with “bears” need look for a seat.