From Dante

A monster seated in the midst of men,
Which, daily fed, is never satiate.
A hollow gulf of vile ingratitude,
Which for his food vouchsafes not pay of thanks,
But still doth claim a debt of due expense:
From hence doth Venus draw the shape of lust;
From hence Mars raiseth blood and stratagems.
The wrack of wealth, the secret foe to life;
The sword that hasteneth on the date of death;
The surest friend to physic by disease;
The pumice that defaceth memory;
The misty vapour that obscures the light.
And brightest beams of science' glittering sun,
And doth eclipse the mind with sluggish thoughts:
The monster that affords this cursed brood,
And makes a commixture of these dire mishaps,
Is but stomach overcharg'd with meats,
That takes delight in endless gluttony.