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foibles
vice
bailiff
dispense
pandemonium.
wench,
gab,
impertinent
demureness,
extravagant;
mince
heeded;
criticaster
usurp
tyrant's
zealous
belie
scoundrel.
vagabond,
coquettes;
censures
flimflam.
gab,
besotted,
candidly
He always wanted to return a part. "It is too much," he'd say, "too much by half; I am not worthy of your pity." Then, When I refused to take it back, he'd go, Before my eyes, and give it to the poor.
ORGON. Brother, your language smacks of atheism; And I suspect your soul's a little tainted Therewith. I've preached to you a score of times That you'll draw down some judgment on your head.
I like this
CLEANTE. That is the usual strain of all your kind; They must have every one as blind as they. They call you atheist if you have good eyes; And if you don't adore their vain grimaces, You've neither faith nor care for sacred things. No, no; such talk can't frighten me; I know What I am saying; heaven sees my heart. We're not the dupes of all your canting mummers; There are false heroes—and false devotees; And as true heroes never are the ones Who make much noise about their deeds of honour, Just so true devotees, whom we should follow, Are not the ones who make so much vain show. What! Will
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oracle,
Cato,
That there's a difference 'twixt false and true.
sacrilegious,
dutiful
graft
vagabond
Let's leave his rank, then,—take the man himself:
inclined
virtue,
impudent
pious,
dowry!
proxy;
DORINE. Then what's your plan about this other match? MARIANE. To kill myself, if it is forced upon me. DORINE. Good! That's a remedy I hadn't thought of. Just die, and everything will be all right. This medicine is marvellous, indeed! It drives me mad to hear folk talk such nonsense. MARIANE. Oh dear, Dorine you get in such a temper! You have no sympathy for people's troubles. DORINE. I have no sympathy when folk talk nonsense, And flatten out as you do, at a pinch.
Contrive
perfidy,
TARTUFFE. Love for the beauty of eternal things Cannot destroy our love for earthly beauty;
Providence
ORGON. Just Heaven! Can what I hear be credited? TARTUFFE. Yes, brother, I am wicked, I am guilty, A miserable sinner, steeped in evil, The greatest criminal that ever lived. Each moment of my life is stained with soilures; And all is but a mass of crime and filth; Heaven, for my punishment, I see it plainly, Would mortify me now. Whatever wrong They find to charge me with, I'll not deny it But guard against the pride of self-defence. Believe their stories, arm your wrath against me, And drive me like a villain from your house; I cannot have so great a share of shame But what I have deserved a
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CLEANTE. Eh, sir, give up these conscientious scruples That well may cause a rightful heir's complaints. Don't take so much upon yourself, but let him Possess what's his, at his own risk and peril; Consider, it were better he misused it, Than you should be accused of robbing him. I am astounded that unblushingly You could allow such offers to be made! Tell me—has true religion any maxim That teaches us to rob the lawful heir? If Heaven has made it quite impossible Damis and you should live together here, Were it not better you should quietly And honourably withdraw, than let the son Be driven
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Oh, do not make me, by your harsh command, Complain to Heaven you ever were my father; Do not make wretched this poor life you gave me.
