Cleante. She's making fun of you to your face, brother; And, though I don't intend to be a bother, I must frankly admit that there's some justice In what she says. What a crazy caprice You have for him! And how could he exert Such charm that you'll even let your wife be hurt? After taking this pauper into your heart, You go so far . . . Orgon. Stop there! Or we must part! You don't know the man to whom you refer. Cleante. Okay. Say I don't know him if you prefer, But then to know what sort of man he might be . . . Orgon. Brother, you'd be charmed if you could only see Him, and your glee would be . . . gargantuan! He's a man who . . . who . . . a man . . . well, a man! Learn from him a peacefulness most exquisite, That lets you drop your woes like . . . dried horseshit! Yes, I've been reborn because of his preaching: He teaches me that I shouldn't love anything, From every earthly passion he has freed my life; I'd watch my brother, mother, children, and wife Drop dead without caring so much as that! [He snaps his fingers.] Cleante. You've sure got humane sentiments down pat! Orgon. Ah! If you'd seen him as I did at first, Your eyes would have feasted on him with a spiritual thirst! Each day he came to church smiling with sweet peace And threw himself down before me on both knees. He drew upon himself the eyes of everyone there By the holy fervor of his pious prayer. He sighed and wept with a most saintly passion And humbly kissed the earth in a fetching fashion; And when I was going, he rushed out front To bless me with water from the holy font. His servant (matching his master to a T) Then informed me of his identity-- And his poverty. So I made a donation, But then he tried to return a portion. "It's too much," he said. "You're too generous; I don't merit your pity and kindness." And when I refused to take it back, he gave It in alms to the poor right there in the nave. Then God bade me take him into my home And now life is sweet as a honeycomb. He governs us all, and to protect my honor Bids my wife grant his godly rule upon her. He forewarns me of men who might give her the eye, And he really seems far more jealous than I! Why, you wouldn't believe his fear of Hell! He thinks himself damned for the least bagatelle. Such trifles suffice to scandalize him That he even accused himself of sin For having slain with a bit too much wrath A flea that just happened to cross his path. Cleante. My goodness, brother! I think you're crazy! Are you mocking me with sheer lunacy? And how can you pretend that this pure rot . . . ? Orgon.