How Panurge and the rest rhymed with poetic fury.

What a pox ails the fellow? quoth Friar John. Stark staring mad, or bewitched, o' my word! Do but hear the chiming dotterel gabble in rhyme. What o' devil has he swallowed? His eyes roll in his loggerhead just for the world like a dying goat's. Will the addle-pated wight have the grace to sheer off? Will he rid us of his damned company, to go shite out his nasty rhyming balderdash in some bog-house? Will nobody be so kind as to cram some dog's-bur down the poor cur's gullet? or will he, monk-like, run his fist up to the elbow into his throat to his very maw, to scour and clear his flanks? Will he take a hair of the same dog?

Pantagruel chid Friar John, and said:

       &nbsp Bold monk, forbear! this, I'll assure ye,
       &nbsp Proceeds all from poetic fury;
       &nbsp Warmed by the god, inspired with wine,
       &nbsp His human soul is made divine.
       &nbsp       &nbsp For without jest,
       &nbsp       &nbsp His hallowed breast,
       &nbsp       &nbsp With wine possessed,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Could have no rest
       &nbsp       &nbsp Till he'd expressed
       &nbsp       &nbsp Some thoughts at least
       &nbsp       &nbsp Of his great guest.
       &nbsp       &nbsp Then straight he flies
       &nbsp       &nbsp Above the skies,
       &nbsp       &nbsp And mortifies,
       &nbsp       &nbsp With prophecies,
       &nbsp       &nbsp Our miseries.
       &nbsp And since divinely he's inspired,
       &nbsp Adore the soul by wine acquired,
       &nbsp And let the tosspot be admired.
How, quoth the friar, the fit rhyming is upon you too? Is't come to that? Then we are all peppered, or the devil pepper me. What would I not give to have Gargantua see us while we are in this maggotty crambo-vein! Now may I be cursed with living on that damned empty food, if I can tell whether I shall scape the catching distemper. The devil a bit do I understand which way to go about it; however, the spirit of fustian possesses us all, I find. Well, by St. John, I'll poetize, since everybody does; I find it coming. Stay, and pray pardon me if I don't rhyme in crimson; 'tis my first essay.

       &nbsp Thou, who canst water turn to wine,
       &nbsp Transform my bum, by power divine,
       &nbsp Into a lantern, that may light
       &nbsp My neighbour in the darkest night.
Panurge then proceeds in his rapture, and says:

       &nbsp From Pythian Tripos ne'er were heard
       &nbsp More truths, nor more to be revered.
       &nbsp I think from Delphos to this spring
       &nbsp Some wizard brought that conjuring thing.
       &nbsp Had honest Plutarch here been toping,
       &nbsp He then so long had ne'er been groping
       &nbsp To find, according to his wishes,
       &nbsp Why oracles are mute as fishes
       &nbsp At Delphos. Now the reason's clear;
       &nbsp No more at Delphos they're, but here.
       &nbsp Here is the tripos, out of which
       &nbsp Is spoke the doom of poor and rich.
       &nbsp For Athenaeus does relate
       &nbsp This Bottle is the Womb of Fate;
       &nbsp Prolific of mysterious wine,
       &nbsp And big with prescience divine,
       &nbsp It brings the truth with pleasure forth;
       &nbsp Besides you ha't a pennyworth.
       &nbsp So, Friar John, I must exhort you
       &nbsp To wait a word that may import you,
       &nbsp And to inquire, while here we tarry,
       &nbsp If it shall be your luck to marry.
Friar John answers him in a rage, and says:

       &nbsp How, marry! By St. Bennet's boot,
       &nbsp And his gambadoes, I'll never do't.
       &nbsp No man that knows me e'er shall judge
       &nbsp I mean to make myself a drudge;
       &nbsp Or that pilgarlic e'er will dote
       &nbsp Upon a paltry petticoat.
       &nbsp I'll ne'er my liberty betray
       &nbsp All for a little leapfrog play;
       &nbsp And ever after wear a clog
       &nbsp Like monkey or like mastiff-dog.
       &nbsp No, I'd not have, upon my life,
       &nbsp Great Alexander for my wife,
       &nbsp Nor Pompey, nor his dad-in-law,
       &nbsp Who did each other clapperclaw.
       &nbsp Not the best he that wears a head
       &nbsp Shall win me to his truckle-bed.
Panurge, pulling off his gaberdine and mystical accoutrements, replied:

       &nbsp Wherefore thou shalt, thou filthy beast,
       &nbsp Be damned twelve fathoms deep at least;
       &nbsp While I shall reign in Paradise,
       &nbsp Whence on thy loggerhead I'll piss.
       &nbsp Now when that dreadful hour is come,
       &nbsp That thou in hell receiv'st thy doom,
       &nbsp E'en there, I know, thou'lt play some trick,
       &nbsp And Proserpine shan't scape a prick
       &nbsp Of the long pin within thy breeches.
       &nbsp But when thou'rt using these capriches,
       &nbsp And caterwauling in her cavern,
       &nbsp Send Pluto to the farthest tavern
       &nbsp For the best wine that's to be had,
       &nbsp Lest he should see, and run horn-mad.
       &nbsp She's kind, and ever did admire
       &nbsp A well-fed monk or well-hung friar.

Go to, quoth Friar John, thou old noddy, thou doddipolled ninny, go to the devil thou'rt prating of. I've done with rhyming; the rheum gripes me at the gullet. Let's talk of paying and going; come.