In presenting to you the gift of my heart, But I place all my faith in your kindness Like a beggar-man hindered by blindness. In you I seek peace, hope, and happiness; On you depends my torment or my bliss. And through you alone I will finally be Happy if you will, or sad if you please. Elmire. That declaration is very urbane, But in a man of God it's a bit profane. You ought to protect your heart a bit better And reflect more deeply on such a matter. A saint like you whom we all hail . . . Tartuffe. I may be holy, but I'm nonetheless male, And when one sees your heavenly charms, It's time for reason to throw up its arms. I know such words from me may seem strange--though, Madam, after all, I am not an angel, And if you condemn the confession I'm making, Admit nonetheless that your beauty's breath-taking. From the first time I set eyes on your supreme Splendor, my heart became yours and you my queen. The ineffable sweetness of your divine gaze Shattered my stout heart and set it ablaze. That look conquered all--fasting, prayers, duty-- And turned my vows into praise of your beauty. My eyes and my sighs have often shown my choice But to make it still clearer I now add my voice. If you should look down with a kindly eye Upon the base woes of a slave such as I And if your great kindness should happen to lead You to stoop down and grant what I need, I should always have for you, oh precious one, A love that beggars all comparison. With me your honor will never be damaged; No disgrace can attend an affair I have managed. All these gallants at court, for whom wives act absurd, Are reckless in their deeds and rash in their words. They endlessly brag about every success. Each favor they receive, they quickly confess, And their wagging tongues, on which you rely, Dishonor the shrine before which they lie. But men like me burn with a discreet fever, And we keep your sweet secrets safe forever. The concern we have for our good reputation Will also preserve you in your own station; In us you will find, if you wish it, my dear, Love without scandal, pleasure without fear. Elmire. I have heard your words, and your rhetoric Leaves your point clear--though you lay it on thick. Aren't you afraid that I could be in the mood To tell my husband of your solicitude, And that a sudden knowledge of that sort Might set back your hopes of his lasting support? Tartuffe. I know that you are only too gracious And that you will forgive my audacious Deeds since they spring from a human failing In that passionate love that you are bewailing,