Catso, quoth Friar John, the poor fornicating brother is bashful, and sticks at sixteen, as if that were his stint. Right, quoth Panurge, but couldst thou keep pace with him, Friar John, my dainty cod? May the devil's dam suck my teat if he does not look as if he had got a blow over the nose with a Naples cowl-staff. Pan. Pray, Friar Shakewell, does your whole fraternity quaver and shake at that rate? Fri. All. Pan. Who of them is the best cock o' the game? Fri. I. Pan. Do you never commit dry-bobs or flashes in the pan? Fri. None. Pan. I blush like any black dog, and could be as testy as an old cook when I think on all this; it passes my understanding. But, pray, when you have been pumped dry one day, what have you got the next? Fri. More. Pan. By Priapus, they have the Indian herb of which Theophrastus spoke, or I'm much out. But, hearkee me, thou man of brevity, should some impediment, honestly or otherwise, impair your talents and cause your benevolence to lessen, how would it fare with you, then? Fri. Ill. Pan. What would the wenches do? Fri. Rail. Pan. What if you skipped, and let 'em fast a whole day? Fri. Worse. Pan. What do you give 'em then? Fri. Thwacks. Pan. What do they say to this? Fri. Bawl. Pan. And what else? Fri. Curse. Pan. How do you correct 'em? Fri. Hard. Pan. What do you get out of 'em then? Fri. Blood. Pan. How's their complexion then? Fri. Odd. Pan. What do they mend it with? Fri. Paint. Pan. Then what do they do? Fri. Fawn. Pan. By the oath you have taken, tell me truly what time of the year do you do it least in? Fri. Now (August.). Pan. What season do you do it best in? Fri. March. Pan. How is your performance the rest of the year? Fri. Brisk. Then quoth Panurge, sneering, Of all, and of all, commend me to Ball; this is the friar of the world for my money. You've heard how short, concise, and compendious he is in his answers. Nothing is to be got out of him but monosyllables. By jingo, I believe he would make three bites of a cherry. Damn him, cried Friar John, that's as true as I am his uncle. The dog yelps at another gate's rate when he is among his bitches; there he is polysyllable enough, my life for yours. You talk of making three bites of a cherry! God send fools more wit and us more money! May I be doomed to fast a whole day if I don't verily believe he would not make above two bites of a shoulder of mutton and one swoop of a whole pottle of wine. Zoons, do but see how down o' the mouth the cur looks! He's nothing but skin and bones; he has pissed his tallow. Truly, truly, quoth Epistemon, this rascally monastical vermin all over the world mind nothing but their gut, and are as ravenous as any kites, and then, forsooth, they tell us they've nothing but food and raiment in this world. 'Sdeath, what more have kings and princes? Chapter 5.XXIX. How Epistemon disliked the institution of Lent.