at they have not got enough of the fire,
whether by boiling, roasting, or otherwise, except the shrimps, lobsters,
crabs, and crayfishes, which are cardinalized with boiling. By God's
feast-gazers, said the monk, the porter of our abbey then hath not his head
well boiled, for his eyes are as red as a mazer made of an alder-tree. The
thigh of this leveret is good for those that have the gout. To the purpose
of the truel,--what is the reason that the thighs of a gentlewoman are
always fresh and cool? This problem, said Gargantua, is neither in
Aristotle, in Alexander Aphrodiseus, nor in Plutarch. There are three
causes, said the monk, by which that place is naturally refreshed. Primo,
because the water runs all along by it. Secundo, because it is a shady
place, obscure and dark, upon which the sun never shines. And thirdly,
because it is continually flabbelled, blown upon, and aired by the north
winds of the hole arstick, the fan of the smock, and flipflap of the
codpiece. And lusty, my lads. Some bousing liquor, page! So! crack,
crack, crack. O how good is God, that gives us of this excellent juice! I
call him to witness, if I had been in the time of Jesus Christ, I would
have kept him from being taken by the Jews in the garden of Olivet. And
the devil fail me, if I should have failed to cut off the hams of these
gentlemen apostles who ran away so basely after they had well supped, and
left their good master in the lurch. I hate that man worse than poison
that offers to run away when he should fight and lay stoutly about him. Oh
that I were but King of France for fourscore or a hundred years! By G--, I
should whip like curtail-dogs these runaways of Pavia. A plague take them;
why did they not choose rather to die there than to leave their good prince
in that pinch and necessity? Is it not better and more honourable to
perish in fighting valiantly than to live in disgrace by a cowardly running
away? We are like to eat no great store of goslings this year; therefore,
friend, reach me some of that roasted pig there.

Diavolo, is there no more must? No more sweet wine? Germinavit radix
Jesse. Je renie ma vie, je meurs de soif; I renounce my life, I rage for
thirst. This wine is none of the worst. What wine drink you at Paris? I
give myself to the devil, if I did not once keep open house at Paris for
all comers six months together. Do you know Friar Claude of the high
kilderkins? Oh the good fellow t