with a young spruce-like scholar
that was coming upon the same very way, and, after they had saluted one
another, asked him thus, My friend, from whence comest thou now? The
scholar answered him, From the alme, inclyte, and celebrate academy, which
is vocitated Lutetia. What is the meaning of this? said Pantagruel to one
of his men. It is, answered he, from Paris. Thou comest from Paris then,
said Pantagruel; and how do you spend your time there, you my masters the
students of Paris? The scholar answered, We transfretate the Sequan at the
dilucul and crepuscul; we deambulate by the compites and quadrives of the
urb; we despumate the Latial verbocination; and, like verisimilary
amorabons, we captat the benevolence of the omnijugal, omniform and
omnigenal feminine sex. Upon certain diecules we invisat the lupanares,
and in a venerian ecstasy inculcate our veretres into the penitissime
recesses of the pudends of these amicabilissim meretricules. Then do we
cauponisate in the meritory taberns of the Pineapple, the Castle, the
Magdalene, and the Mule, goodly vervecine spatules perforaminated with
petrocile. And if by fortune there be rarity or penury of pecune in our
marsupies, and that they be exhausted of ferruginean metal, for the shot we
dimit our codices and oppignerat our vestments, whilst we prestolate the
coming of the tabellaries from the Penates and patriotic Lares. To which
Pantagruel answered, What devilish language is this? By the Lord, I think
thou art some kind of heretick. My lord, no, said the scholar; for
libentissimally, as soon as it illucesceth any minutule slice of the day, I
demigrate into one of these so well architected minsters, and there,
irrorating myself with fair lustral water, I mumble off little parcels of
some missic precation of our sacrificuls, and, submurmurating my horary
precules, I elevate and absterge my anime from its nocturnal inquinations.
I revere the Olympicols. I latrially venere the supernal Astripotent. I
dilige and redame my proxims. I observe the decalogical precepts, and,
according to the facultatule of my vires, I do not discede from them one
late unguicule. Nevertheless, it is veriform, that because Mammona doth
not supergurgitate anything in my loculs, that I am somewhat rare and lent
to supererogate the elemosynes to those egents that hostially queritate
their stipe.

Prut, tut, said Pantagruel, what doth this fool mean to say? I think he is
upon the forgi