In the same degree of kindred, one called his, my butter; she called him, my eggs; and they were akin just like a dish of buttered eggs.  I heard one call his, my tripe, and she him, my faggot.  Now I could not, for the heart’s blood of me, pick out or discover what parentage, alliance, affinity, or consanguinity was between them, with reference to our custom; only they told us that she was faggot’s tripe. (Tripe de fagot means the smallest sticks in a faggot.) Another, complimenting his convenient, said, Yours, my shell; she replied, I was yours before, sweet oyster.  I reckon, said Carpalin, she hath gutted his oyster.  Another long-shanked ugly rogue, mounted on a pair of high-heeled wooden slippers, meeting a strapping, fusty, squabbed dowdy, says he to her, How is’t my top?  She was short upon him, and arrogantly replied, Never the better for you, my whip.  By St. Antony’s hog, said Xenomanes, I believe so; for how can this whip be sufficient to lash this top?

A college professor, well provided with cod, and powdered and prinked up, having a while discoursed with a great lady, taking his leave with these words, Thank you, sweetmeat; she cried, There needs no thanks, sour-sauce.  Saith Pantagruel, This is not altogether incongruous, for sweet meat must have sour sauce.  A wooden loggerhead said to a young wench, It is long since I saw you, bag; All the better, cried she, pipe.  Set them together, said Panurge, then blow in their arses, it will be a bagpipe.  We saw, after that, a diminutive humpbacked gallant, pretty near us, taking leave of a she-relation of his, thus:  Fare thee well, friend hole; she reparteed, Save thee, friend peg.  Quoth Friar John, What could they say more, were he all peg and she all hole?  But now would I give something to know if every cranny of the hole can be stopped up with that same peg.

A bawdy bachelor, talking with an old trout, was saying, Remember, rusty gun.  I will not fail, said she, scourer.  Do you reckon these two to be akin? said Pantagruel to the mayor.  I rather take them to be foes.  In our country a woman would take this as a mortal affront.  Good people of t’other world, replied the mayor, you have few such and so near relations as this gun and scourer are to one another; for they both come out of one shop.  What, was the shop their mother? quoth Panurge.  What mother, said the mayor, does the man mean?  That must be some of your world’s affinity; we have here neither father nor mother.  Your little paltry fellows that live on t’other side the water, poor rogues, booted with wisps of hay, may indeed have such; but we scorn it.  The good Pantagruel stood gazing and listening; but at those words he had like to have lost all patience. (Here Motteux adds an aside—­’os kai nun o Ermeneutes.  P.M.’).

Having very exactly viewed the situation of the island and the way of living of the Enassed nation, we went to take a cup of the creature at a tavern, where there happened to be a wedding after the manner of the country.  Bating that shocking custom, there was special good cheer.