Go on. Don't believe him! It's too bizarre!
I say . . .
No, you've gone too far,
And no one believes you.
Damn you, you shrew . . .
Well, I believe you then; the worse for you.
What? Monsieur, can you pose as one who's sage,
Gravely stroking your bearded visage?
And still be fool enough to wish . . .
I have given you too much liberty,
And it no longer gives me any pleasure.
Monsieur, please. Keep your anger within measure.
Are you mocking us with your silly plot?
Your daughter is no match for a bigot;
He has other schemes to worry about.
And what would you gain if she wed this lout?
With your wealth, what benefit would it bring
To pick a bum . . .