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Updated: May 17, 2025
Patrick's hole in Ireland, or Trophonius's pit in Boeotia; which caused Panurge to say to her, after we had got down some seventy-eight steps: Dear madam, with a sorrowful, aching heart, I most humbly beseech your lanternship to lead us back. May I be led to hell if I be not half dead with fear; my heart is sunk down into my hose; I am afraid I shall make buttered eggs in my breeches.
I have no manner of kindness for the dog, for there never is a greater toothache than when dogs bite us by the shins. And if this be only Trophonius's pit, the lemures, hobthrushes, and goblins will certainly swallow us alive, just as they devoured formerly one of Demetrius's halberdiers for want of bridles. Art thou here, Friar John? Prithee, dear, dear cod, stay by me; I'm almost dead with fear.
A wife who has no will but his! But were there not, think you, some struggles between them at first, gout out of the question? She has none of them now. How came they to be dissipated? Ah! my dear! she has been too long resident in Trophonius's cave, I doubt.* * Spectator, Vol. VIII. No. 599. Let me add one reflection upon this subject, and so entitle myself to your correction for all at once.
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