To offend in that way a saintly man!
Heavenly Lord pardon him if you can.
[To ORGON.] If you only knew with what pain
I see them trying to blacken my name. . . .
The mere thought of this ingratitude
Makes me suffer from a torture so crude . . .
The horror I feel . . . My soul longs to cry . . .
I can't even speak, and I'm sure I will die.
ORGON [He runs weeping to the door through which he had chased his son.]
Villain! How I regret that I held my hand
And that I did not crush you where you stand.
[To TARTUFFE.] Calm yourself, brother and try not to fret.
Let's stop these squabbles that end in regret.
The great friction I have caused makes me grieve,
And I believe, brother, that I should leave.
What? Surely you jest?