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        How

        About Tartuffe?

        Gently inclined to slumber,

        He left the table, went into his room,

        Got himself straight into a good warm bed,

        And slept quite undisturbed until next morning.

        Poor man!

        At last she let us all persuade her,

        And got up courage to be bled; and then

        She was relieved at once.

        And how about

        Tartuffe?

        He plucked up courage properly,

        Bravely entrenched his soul against all evils,

        And to replace the blood that she had lost,

        He drank at breakfast four huge draughts of wine.

        Poor man!

        So now they both are doing well;

        And I'll go straightway and inform my mistress

        How pleased you are at her recovery.

        Brother, she ridicules you to your face;

        And I, though I don't want to make you angry,

        Must tell you candidly that she's quite right.

        Was such infatuation ever heard of?

        And can a man to-day have charms to make you

        Forget all else, relieve his poverty,

        Give him a home, and then … ?

        Stop there, good brother,

        You do not know the man you're speaking of.

        Since you will have it so, I do not know him;

        But after all, to tell what sort of man

        He is …

        Dear brother, you'd be charmed to know him;

        Your raptures over him would have no end.

        He is a man … who … ah! … in fact …a man

        Whoever does his will, knows perfect peace,

        And counts the whole world else, as so much dung.

        His converse has transformed me quite; he weans

        My heart from every friendship, teaches me

        To have no love for anything on earth;

        And I could see my brother, children, mother,

        And wife, all die, and never care – a snap.

        Your feelings are humane, I must say, brother!

        Ah! If you'd seen him, as I saw him first,

        You would have loved him just as much as I.

        He came to church each day, with contrite mien,

        Kneeled, on both knees, right opposite my place,

        And drew the eyes of all the congregation,

        To watch the fervour of his prayers to heaven;

        With deep-drawn sighs and great ejaculations,

        He humbly kissed the earth at every moment;

        And when I left the church, he ran before me

        To give me holy water at the door.

        I learned his poverty, and who he was,

        By questioning his servant, who is like him,

        And gave him gifts; but in his modesty

        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.

        At length heaven bade me take him to my home,

        And since that day, all seems to prosper here.

        He censures everything, and for my sake

        He even takes great interest in my wife;

        He lets me know who ogles her, and seems

        Six times as jealous as I am myself.

        You'd not believe how far his zeal can go:

        He calls himself a sinner just for trifles;

        The merest nothing is enough to shock him;

        So much so, that the other day I heard him

        Accuse himself for having, while at prayer,

        In too much anger caught and killed a flea.

        Zounds, brother, you are mad, I think! Or else

        You're making sport of me, with such a speech.

        What are you driving at with all this nonsense … ?

        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.

        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 you find no difference between

        Hypocrisy and genuine devoutness?

        And will you treat them both alike, and pay

        The self-same honour both to masks and faces

        Set artifice beside sincerity,

        Confuse the

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