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.