Pan. How hang your pouches? Fri. Tight.
Pan. How are they when you’ve done? Fri. Lank.
Pan. Now, by the oath you have taken, tell me, when you have a mind to cohabit, how you throw ‘em? Fri. Down.
Pan. And what do they say then? Fri. Fie.
Pan. However, like maids, they say nay, and take it; and speak the less, but think the more, minding the work in hand; do they not? Fri. True.
Pan. Do they get you bairns? Fri. None.
Pan. How do you pig together? Fri. Bare.
Pan. Remember you’re upon your oath, and tell me justly and bona fide how many times a day you monk it? Fri. Six.
Pan. How many bouts a-nights? Fri. Ten.
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.