“I have lost my copy books.
“Where are you in your Latin humanities?”
“My copy of Horace has been stolen.”
“Where are you in Aristotle?”
“I’ faith! brother what father of the church is it, who says that the errors of heretics have always had for their lurking place the thickets of Aristotle’s metaphysics? A plague on Aristotle! I care not to tear my religion on his metaphysics.”
“Young man,” resumed the archdeacon, “at the king’s last entry, there was a young gentleman, named Philippe de Comines, who wore embroidered on the housings of his horse this device, upon which I counsel you to meditate: Qui non laborat, non manducet.”
The scholar remained silent for a moment, with his finger in his ear, his eyes on the ground, and a discomfited mien.
All at once he turned round to Claude with the agile quickness of a wagtail.
“So, my good brother, you refuse me a sou parisis, wherewith to buy a crust at a baker’s shop?”
“Qui non laborat, non manducet.”