He sipped at a weak hock and seltzer
    As he gazed at the London skies
Through the Nottingham lace of the curtains
    Or was it his  bees-winged eyes?

To the right and before him Pont Street
    Did tower in her new built red,
As hard as the morning gaslight
    That shone on his unmade bed,

“I want some more hock in my seltzer,
    And Robbie, please give me your hand —
Is this the end or beginning?
    How can I understand?

“So you’ve brought me the latest Yellow Book :
    And Buchan has got in it now:
Approval of what is approved of
    Is as false as a well-kept vow.

“More hock, Robbie — where is the seltzer?
    Dear boy, pull again at the bell!
They are all little better than cretins ,
    Though this is the Cadogan Hotel.

“One astrakhan coat is at Willis’s —
    Another one’s at the Savoy:
Do fetch my morocco portmanteau
    And bring them on later, dear boy.”

A thump, and a murmur of voices —
    (”Oh why must they make such a din?”)
As the door of the bedroom swung open
    And TWO PLAIN CLOTHES POLICEMEN came in:

“Mr. Woilde, we ‘ave come for tew take yew
    Where felons and criminals dwell:
We must ask yew tew leave with us quoietly
    For this is the Cadogan Hotel.”

He rose, and he put down The Yellow Book .
    He staggered — and, terrible-eyed,
He brushed past the palms on the staircase
    And was helped to a hansom outside.