human
Some wine first, the hunchback panted, for the priest's arm was rough.
gpt
The ship moves not till she has wind in her sails. I have been a drinker of water these months, and my dreams have been red of wine. Ah, friend! may your beard grow golden, and curl even as your mistress would have it.
human
My beard becomes me well enough,
gpt
Well, in faith. It grows out of your skin like bristles from a chimney-brush.
human
Cease your gibes, hunchback, and to your capers. We grow thin for want of laughter in this accursed country,
gpt
What shall it be, Messires, a dance, a clever contortion, or a song--a song of fair ladies, such as one may see upon the streets of Paris, saving the presence of these most holy and renowned priests?
human
All. Give us all, buffoon, and invent somewhat for the occasion,