And make a duchess of my bride.
Sing Io paean! loudly sing
To Hymen, who all joys will bring.
Well, Friar John, I'll take my oath,
This oracle is full of troth;
Intelligible truth it bears,
More certain than the sieve and shears.

Chapter 5.XLVI.

How Panurge and the rest rhymed with poetic fury.

What a pox ails the fellow? quoth Friar John. Stark staring mad, or
bewitched, o' my word! Do but hear the chiming dotterel gabble in rhyme.
What o' devil has he swallowed? His eyes roll in his loggerhead just for
the world like a dying goat's. Will the addle-pated wight have the grace
to sheer off? Will he rid us of his damned company, to go shite out his
nasty rhyming balderdash in some bog-house? Will nobody be so kind as to
cram some dog's-bur down the poor cur's gullet? or will he, monk-like, run
his fist up to the elbow into his throat to his very maw, to scour and
clear his flanks? Will he take a hair of the same dog?

Pantagruel chid Friar John, and said:

Bold monk, forbear! this, I'll assure ye,
Proceeds all from poetic fury;
Warmed by the god, inspired with wine,
His human soul is made divine.
For without jest,
His hallowed breast,
With wine possessed,
Could have no rest
Till he'd expressed
Some thoughts at least
Of his great guest.
Then straight he flies
Above the skies,
And mortifies,
With prophecies,
Our miseries.
And since divinely he's inspired,
Adore the soul by wine acquired,
And let the tosspot be admired.

How, quoth the friar, the fit rhyming is upon you too? Is't come to that?
Then we are all peppered, or the devil pepper me. What would I not give to
have Gargantua see us while we are in this maggotty crambo-vein! Now may I
be cursed with living on that damned empty food, if I can tell whether I
shall scape the catching distemper. The devil a bit do I understand which
way to go about it; however, the spirit of fustian possesses us all, I
find. Well, by St. John, I'll poetize, since everybody does; I find it
coming. Stay, and pray pardon me if I don't rhyme in crimson; 'tis my
first essay.

Thou, who canst water turn to wine,
Transform my bum, by power divine,
Into a lantern, that may light
My neighbour in the darkest night.

Panurge then proceeds in his rapture, and says:

From Pythian Tripos ne'er were heard
More truths, nor more to be revered.
I think from Delphos to this