Now for the tea of our host Now for the rollicking bun, Now for the muffin and toast, Now for the gay Sally Lunn!

I drink to the general joy o’ the whole table." Macbeth

My hour for tea is half-past five, and my buttered toast waits for nobody.

Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine,
Yet let's be merry; we'll have tea and toast;
Custards for supper, and an endless host
Of syllabubs and jellies and mincepies,
And other such ladylike luxuries.

When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one's ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.

I don't drink coffee I take tea my dear
I like my toast done on one side ..."

(Englishman in New York)