Tartuffe

g slain with a bit too much wrath
A flea that just happened to cross his path.
Cleante. My goodness, brother! I think you're crazy!

Are you mocking me with sheer lunacy?
And how can you pretend that this pure rot . . . ?
Orgon. Dear brother, your words reek of that free thought

With which I find you more than a bit impeached,
And, as ten times or more I have clearly preached,
You will soon find yourself in a wicked bind.
Cleante. Now this is the normal jargon of your kind.

They want everyone to be as blind as they are.
To be clear-sighted, is to be in error,
And one who rejects their vain hypocrisy
Has no respect for faith or sanctity.
Go on, all your tart sermons scarcely smart;
I know what I'm saying, and God sees my heart.
I'm not a slave to your silly ceremony.
There is false piety like false bravery;
Just as one often sees, when honor calls us,
That the bravest men never make the most fuss,
So, too, the good Christia