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Tartuffe
Jean-Baptiste Poquelin Molière

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DORINE (Cont.)
He caresses him, kisses him, and could not show a mistress
More love and affection than he gives to this
Leech.  At dinner he gives him the highest place
And watches with joy as he stuffs his face
With cakes and tarts and often the best part
Of a pig, and if he should happen to hiccup or fart,
Says, "God be with you!"  He's mad about him--
His honey, his hero.  He always quotes him
And admires his deeds.  His smallest acts are miracles
And even his stupidest words are oracles.
Tartuffe, who uses his dupe to make a buck,
Knows a hundred wily ways to pluck this duck;
He rakes off great sums with his biblical bull
And demands the right to censor us all.
His foolish footman has such presumption
That even he dares to give us instruction.
Madly preaching, he scatters with eyes afire
Our ribbons, our rouge, and our best attire.
Last night he ripped up with his own bare hands
A kerchief left lying in The Holy Lands,
Claiming our crime was truly gigantic
In mixing what's holy with what's Satanic.
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