(_During dinner and after Tennyson_)
ASK me no more: I’ve had enough Chablis;
The wine may come again and take the shape
From glass to glass of “Mountain” or of “Cape,”
But my dear boy, when I have answered thee,
Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: what answer should I give,
I love not pickled pork, nor partridge pie;
I feel if I took whiskey I should die!
Ask me no more—for I prefer to live:
Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: unless my fate is sealed,
And I have striven against you all in vain.
Let your good butler bring me “Hock” again;
Then rest, dear boy. If for this once I yield,
Ask me no more.
_Anonymous._