it not for Lent their art would
soon fall into contempt, and they'd get nothing, for hardly anybody would
be sick.

All distempers are sowed in lent; 'tis the true seminary and native bed of
all diseases; nor does it only weaken and putrefy bodies, but it also makes
souls mad and uneasy. For then the devils do their best, and drive a
subtle trade, and the tribe of canting dissemblers come out of their holes.
'Tis then term-time with your cucullated pieces of formality that have one
face to God and another to the devil; and a wretched clutter they make with
their sessions, stations, pardons, syntereses, confessions, whippings,
anathematizations, and much prayer with as little devotion. However, I'll
not offer to infer from this that the Arimaspians are better than we are in
that point; yet I speak to the purpose.

Well, quoth Panurge to the Semiquaver friar, who happened to be by, dear
bumbasting, shaking, trilling, quavering cod, what thinkest thou of this
fellow? Is he a rank heretic? Fri. Much.

Pan. Ought he not to be singed? Fri. Well.

Pan. As soon as may be? Fri. Right.

Pan. Should not he be scalded first? Fri. No.

Pan. How then, should he be roasted? Fri. Quick.

Pan. Till at last he be? Fri. Dead.

Pan. What has he made you? Fri. Mad.

Pan. What d'ye take him to be? Fri. Damned.

Pan. What place is he to go to? Fri. Hell.

Pan. But, first, how would you have 'em served here? Fri. Burnt.

Pan. Some have been served so? Fri. Store.

Pan. That were heretics? Fri. Less.

Pan. And the number of those that are to be warmed thus hereafter is?
Fri. Great.

Pan. How many of 'em do you intend to save? Fri. None.

Pan. So you'd have them burned? Fri. All.

I wonder, said Epistemon to Panurge, what pleasure you can find in talking
thus with this lousy tatterdemalion of a monk. I vow, did I not know you
well, I might be ready to think you had no more wit in your head than he
has in both his shoulders. Come, come, scatter no words, returned Panurge;
everyone as they like, as the woman said when she kissed her cow. I wish I
might carry him to Gargantua; when I'm married he might be my wife's fool.
And make you one, cried Epistemon. Well said, quoth Friar John. Now, poor
Panurge, take that along with thee, thou'rt e'en fitted; 'tis a plain case
thou'lt never escape wearing the bull's feather; thy wife will be as common
as the highway, that's certain.