An’ if a man did need a dinner now,
Whose dainty smell is present appetite,
Here lives a greasy rogue would cater one.
If I may trust the flattering truth of nose,
This should be Porridge Island—
Being twelve o’th’clock—the knives and forks are laid.
I do remember a young pleader,
And hereabouts he dwells; whom late I noted
In coat once black, with overwhelming brow,