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Jean-Baptiste Poquelin Molière

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Such idle tales form a silly song.
In your home, my dear, I've been silenced too long
Because, like a crap-shooter with the die,
Madame won't give up her turn; but now my
Chance has come.  I applaud my son's great wisdom
In opening his home to this holy person
Who's been heaven-sent to meet your needs
In turning from evil to God's holy deeds.
For your soul's salvation, please pay attention:
What he reprehends, merits reprehension.
These visits, these balls, these conversations
Are flawless signs of Satanic possession.
In them you never hear the holy Credo--
Just songs, chatter, gossip, malice, and innuendo.
Often the neighbors get stabbed to the heart
By vicious lies from the third or fourth part.
So good people suffer real anxiety
From the sad confusion spread at your party.
A slew of slanders are spread along the way
And, as a doctor told me the other day,
This is truly the Tower of Babylon
Because everyone babbles on and on;
And, to tell a story that now comes to mind . . .
Now look at him and how he laughs!  [Indicating CLEANTE.]  Go find
Some snickering fools. They are just your kind!
[To ELMIRE.]  Adieu, my daughter.  I'll say no more.
But I don't intend to darken your door
For a long, long time.  You've fallen from grace.
[Slapping FLIPOTE.]  Hurry up, there!  Don't stand staring into space!
Lord Almighty!  I'll slap your silly face.
Go on, you slut, go on.
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