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 forging of some
diabolical tongue, and that enchanter-like he would
charm us. To whom one of his men said, Without
doubt, sir, this fellow would counterfeit the language
of the Parisians, but he doth only flay the Latin,
imagining by so doing that he doth highly Pindarize
it in most eloquent terms, and strongly conceiteth
himself to be therefore a great orator in the French,
because he disdaineth the common manner of speaking.
To which Pantagruel said, Is it true? The scholar
answered, My worshipful lord, my genie is not apt
nate to that which this flagitious nebulon saith,
to excoriate the cut(ic)ule of our vernacular Gallic,
but vice-versally I gnave opere, and by veles and
rames enite to locupletate it with the Latinicome
redundance. By G—, said Pantagruel,
I will teach you to speak. But first come hither,
and tell me whence thou art. To this the scholar
answered, The primeval origin of my aves and ataves
was indigenary of the Lemovic regions, where requiesceth
the corpor of the hagiotat St. Martial. I understand
thee very well, said Pantagruel. When all comes
to all, thou art a Limousin, and thou wilt here by
thy affected speech counterfeit the Parisians.
Well now, come hither, I must show thee a new trick,
and handsomely give thee the combfeat. With this
he took him by the throat, saying to him, Thou flayest
the Latin; by St. John, I will make thee flay the
fox, for I will now flay thee alive. Then began
the poor Limousin to cry, Haw, gwid maaster! haw,
Laord, my halp, and St. Marshaw! haw, I’m worried.
Haw, my thropple, the bean of my cragg is bruck!
Haw, for gauad’s seck lawt my lean, mawster;
waw, waw, waw. Now, said Pantagruel, thou speakest
naturally, and so let him go, for the poor Limousin
had totally bewrayed and thoroughly conshit his breeches,
which were not deep and large enough, but round straight
cannioned gregs, having in the seat a piece like a
keeling’s tail, and therefore in French called,
de chausses a queue de merlus. Then, said Pantagruel,
St. Alipantin, what civet? Fie! to the devil
with this turnip-eater, as he stinks! and so let him
go. But this hug of Pantagruel’s was such
a terror to him all the days of his life, and took
such deep impression in his fancy, that very often,
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