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