No man is an Ireland nor Ulysses in his cave.
No woman known as Jill has gone up the hill.
Nowhere is to be found a return from the grave
beyond the dark satanic mill.
Take a fresh egg and wrap it round with this divine Pantagruelion. Thus wrapped up, put it in a brasier, as large and hot as you like. Leave it there as long as you like. At last you will take out the egg cooked, hard, and burnt, without alteration, change or over-heating of the sacred Pantagruelion. For less than fifty thousand Bordeaux crowns, reduced to the twelfth part of a mite, you may make the experiment.
— Rabelais, The Third Book of Pantagruel, chapter 52
It is written in the anals of our people, that we are infested with bugs. We’re in bed with them. Our daily bread breeds them. Our bungs sizzle with them.
Entering the fourth form required answering the standard questions.
How many hogsheads in a cubic furlong?
Crimea River, does it flow through Babylon?
When is a man not a man? There’s a hint on this one: When he’s down for the count.