The gnawings of my stomach in this rage of hunger are so tearing, that they make it bark like a mastiff.

Let us throw some bread and beef into his throat to pacify him, as once the sibyl did to Cerberus.

Thou likest best monastical brewis, the prime, the flower of the pot.

I am for the solid, principal verb that comes after -- the good brown loaf, always accompanied with a round slice of the nine-lecture-powdered labourer.

I know thy meaning, answered Friar John; this metaphor is extracted out of the claustral kettle.