ORGON
What! Is the thing incredible?
DORINE
So much so
I don't believe it even from yourself, sir.
ORGON
I know a way to make you credit it.
DORINE
No, no, you're telling us a fairly tale!
ORGON
I'm telling you just what will happen shortly.
DORINE
Stuff!
ORGON
Daughter, what I say is in good earnest.
DORINE
There, there, don't take your father seriously;
He's fooling.
ORGON
But I tell you . . .
DORINE
No. No use.
They won't believe you.
ORGON
If I let my anger . . .
DORINE
Well, then, we do believe you; and the worse
For you it is. What! Can a grown-up man
With that expanse of beard across his face
Be mad enough to want . . .?
ORGON
You hark me:
You've taken on yourself here in this house
A sort of free familiarity
That I don't like, I tell you frankly, girl.
DORINE
There, there, let's not get angry, sir, I beg you.
But are you making game of everybody?
Your daughter's not cut out for bigot's meat;
And he has more important things to think of.
Besides, what can you gain by such a match?
How can a man of wealth, like you, go choose
A wretched vagabond for son-in-law?
ORGON
You hold your tongue. And know, the less he has,
The better cause have we to honour him.
His poverty is honest poverty;
It should exalt him more than worldly grandeur,
For he has let himself be robbed of all,
Through careless disregard of temporal things
And fixed attachment to the things eternal.
My help may set him on his feet again,
Win back his property--a fair estate
He has at home, so I'm informed--and prove him
For what he is, a true-born gentleman.
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