“O plump head waiter at ‘The Cock,’
To which I most resort,
How goes the time? ’Tis five o’clock.
Go fetch a pint of port.
“But let it not be such as that
You set before chance-comers,
But such whose father-grape grew fat
On Lusitanian summers.”

And now all things must have an end; and the end of pleasure is like the end of life,—weariness, satiety, and regret; and the end of a well-spent day is not of that complexion, for its name should be “supper,” without which, however, a man had better go to bed, than with it and arise in debt. But, as the moral does not apply to us, you and I, Reader, if you will venture further with so indifferent a companion, will go hand in hand, before we finally separate.