|Jean Baptiste Poquelin Molière (16221673). Tartuffe.|
The Harvard Classics. 190914.
DAMIS, ORGON, CLÉANTE
What! father, can the scoundrel threaten you,
|Forget the many benefits received,|
|And in his base abominable pride|
|Make of your very favours arms against you?|
Too true, my son. It tortures me to think ont.
Let me alone, Ill chop his ears off for him.
|We must deal roundly with his insolence;|
|Tis I must free you from him at a blow;|
|Tis I, to set things right, must strike him down.|
Spoke like a true young man. Now just calm down,
|And moderate your towering tantrums, will you?|
|We live in such an age, with such a king,|
|That violence can not advance our cause.|