and bedaubed as I am now. If ever there was a
man in my country in the like pickle. Confiteor,
alas! a word or two of testament or codicil at least.
A thousand devils seize the cuckoldy cow-hearted mongrel,
cried Friar John. Ods-belly, art thou talking
here of making thy will now we are in danger, and
it behoveth us to bestir our stumps lustily, or never?
Wilt thou come, ho devil? Midshipman, my friend;
O the rare lieutenant; here Gymnast, here on the poop.
We are, by the mass, all beshit now; our light is
out. This is hastening to the devil as fast as
it can. Alas, bou, bou, bou, bou, bou, alas,
alas, alas, alas! said Panurge; was it here we were
born to perish? Oh! ho! good people, I drown,
I die. Consummatum est. I am sped—Magna,
gna, gna, said Friar John. Fie upon him, how
ugly the shitten howler looks. Boy, younker,
see hoyh. Mind the pumps or the devil choke
thee. Hast thou hurt thyself? Zoons, here
fasten it to one of these blocks. On this side,
in the devil’s name, hay—so, my boy.
Ah, Friar John, said Panurge, good ghostly father,
dear friend, don’t let us swear, you sin.
Oh, ho, oh, ho, be be be bous, bous, bhous, I sink,
I die, my friends. I die in charity with all
the world. Farewell, in manus. Bohus bohous,
bhousowauswaus. St. Michael of Aure! St.
Nicholas! now, now or never, I here make you a solemn
vow, and to our Saviour, that if you stand by me this
time, I mean if you set me ashore out of this danger,
I will build you a fine large little chapel or two,
between Quande and Montsoreau, where neither cow nor
calf shall feed. Oh ho, oh ho. Above eighteen
pailfuls or two of it are got down my gullet; bous,
bhous, bhous, bhous, how damned bitter and salt it
is! By the virtue, said Friar John, of the blood,
the flesh, the belly, the head, if I hear thee again
howling, thou cuckoldy cur, I’ll maul thee worse
than any sea-wolf. Ods-fish, why don’t
we take him up by the lugs and throw him overboard
to the bottom of the sea? Hear, sailor; ho,
honest fellow. Thus, thus, my friend, hold fast
above. In truth, here is a sad lightning and
thundering; I think that all the devils are got loose;
it is holiday with them; or else Madame Proserpine
is in child’s labour: all the devils dance
How the pilots were forsaking their ships in the greatest
stress of weather.
Oh, said Panurge, you sin, Friar John, my former crony!
former, I say, for at this time I am no more, you
are no more. It goes against my heart to tell
it you; for I believe this swearing doth your spleen
a great deal of good; as it is a great ease to a wood-cleaver
to cry hem at every blow, and as one who plays at
ninepins is wonderfully helped if, when he hath not
thrown his bowl right, and is like to make a bad cast,
some ingenious stander-by leans and screws his body
halfway about on that side which the bowl should have