The time misspent,
The hours snatched from slumber
The Stomach’s curse
Is midnight verse,
Without regard to number!
Thus, in the chilly night,
When slumbers should have bound him;
Sad Phosphor pales its light,
His dressing-gown around him.
From Memoirs of a Stomach. Written by himself, that all who eat may read. (W. E. Painter, 342, Strand, London, 1853.)