Translated by Jeffrey D. Hoeper. Copyright (C) 2009 by Jeffrey D. Hoeper. Show Excerpt g 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. Dear brother, your words reek of that free thought With which I find you more than a bit impeached, And, as ten times or more I have clearly preached, You will soon find yourself in a wicked bind. Cleante. Now this is the normal jargon of your kind. They want everyone to be as blind as they are. To be clear-sighted, is to be in error, And one who rejects their vain hypocrisy Has no respect for faith or sanctity. Go on, all your tart sermons scarcely smart; I know what I'm saying, and God sees my heart. I'm not a slave to your silly ceremony. There is false piety like false bravery; Just as one often sees, when honor calls us, That the bravest men never make the most fuss, So, too, the good Christia
