se confitures.
But as soon as he had swallowed down one spoonful of them, he was taken
with such a heat in the throat, together with an ulceration in the flap of
the top of the windpipe, that his tongue peeled with it in such sort that,
for all they could do unto him, he found no ease at all but by drinking
only without cessation; for as soon as ever he took the goblet from his
head, his tongue was on a fire, and therefore they did nothing but still
pour in wine into his throat with a funnel. Which when his captains,
bashaws, and guard of his body did see, they tasted of the same drugs to
try whether they were so thirst-procuring and alterative or no. But it so
befell them as it had done their king, and they plied the flagon so well
that the noise ran throughout all the camp, how the prisoner was returned;
that the next day they were to have an assault; that the king and his
captains did already prepare themselves for it, together with his guards,
and that with carousing lustily and quaffing as hard as they could. Every
man, therefore, in the army began to tipple, ply the pot, swill and guzzle
it as fast as they could. In sum, they drunk so much, and so long, that
they fell asleep like pigs, all out of order throughout the whole camp.

Let us now return to the good Pantagruel, and relate how he carried himself
in this business. Departing from the place of the trophies, he took the
mast of their ship in his hand like a pilgrim's staff, and put within the
top of it two hundred and seven and thirty puncheons of white wine of
Anjou, the rest was of Rouen, and tied up to his girdle the bark all full
of salt, as easily as the lansquenets carry their little panniers, and so
set onward on his way with his fellow-soldiers. When he was come near to
the enemy's camp, Panurge said unto him, Sir, if you would do well, let
down this white wine of Anjou from the scuttle of the mast of the ship,
that we may all drink thereof, like Bretons.

Hereunto Pantagruel very willingly consented, and they drank so neat that
there was not so much as one poor drop left of two hundred and seven and
thirty puncheons, except one boracho or leathern bottle of Tours which
Panurge filled for himself, for he called that his vademecum, and some
scurvy lees of wine in the bottom, which served him instead of vinegar.
After they had whittled and curried the can pretty handsomely, Panurge gave
Pantagruel to eat some devilish drugs compounded of lithotript