My Bookworm gave a dinner to a number of his set.
I was not there—I say it to my very great regret.
For they dined well, I fancy, if the menu that I saw
Was followed as implicitly as one obeys the law.

“’Twill open,” he observed to me, “with quatrains on the half.
They go down easy; then for soup”—it really made me laugh—
“The poems of old Johnny Gay”—his words were rather rough—
“They’ll do quite well, for, after all, soup’s thin and sloppy stuff.

“For fish, old Izaak Walton; and to serve as an entrée,
I think some fixed-up morsel, say from James, or from Daudet;
The roast will be Charles Kingsley—there’s a deal of beef in him.
For sherbet, T. B. Aldrich is just suited to my whim.

“For game I’ll have Boccaccio—he’s quite the proper one;
He certainly is gamey, and a trifle underdone;
And for the salad, Addison, so fresh and crisp is he,
With just a touch of Pope to give a tang to him, you see.

“And then for cheese, Max Nordau, for I think you’ll find right there
Some things as strong and mushy as the best of Camembert;
And for dessert let Thackeray and O. Khayyám be brought,
The which completes a dinner of most wondrous richness fraught.

“For olives and for almonds we can take the jokes of Punch—
They’re good enough for us, I think, to casually munch;
And through it all we’ll quaff the wines that flow forever clear
From Avon’s vineyards in the heart of Will of Warwickshire.”