excellent goldsmith, and that the five trades of the good city of Paris are the tanners, the tawers, the makers of cross-belts, the purse-makers, and the sweaters, and that Saint Laurent was burnt with eggshells.
I swear to you, comrades.
“Que je ne beuvrai de piment,
Devant un an, si je cy ment.
“‘Tis moonlight, my charmer; see yonder through the window how the wind is tearing the clouds to tatters! Even thus will I do to your gorget. — Wenches, wipe the children’s noses and snuff the candles. — Christ and Mahom! What am I eating here, Jupiter? Oh�! innkeeper! the hair which is not on the heads of your hussies one finds in your omelettes. Old woman! I like bald omelettes. May the devil confound you! —