Tartuffe quotes

You’re a servant wench, my girl, and much Too full of gab, and too impertinent And free with your advice on all occasions.

You’re a fool, my boy⁠—f, o, o, l Just spells your name.

Let grandma tell you that I’ve said a hundred times to my poor son, Your father, that you’d never come to good Or give him anything but plague and torment.

But, sir, all the same, If I were in my son’s, her husband’s, place, I’d urgently entreat you not to come Within our doors. You preach a way of living That decent people cannot tolerate. I’m rather frank with you; but that’s my way—

I don’t mince matters, when I mean a thing.

Mr. Tartuffe, your friend, is mighty lucky …

It would be a grievous thing If, for the fear of idle talk about us, We had to sacrifice our friends. No, no; Even if we could bring ourselves to do it, Think you that everyone would then be silenced?

Against backbiting there is no defence So let us try to live in innocence, To silly tattle pay no heed at all, And leave the gossips free to vent their gall.

Our neighbour Daphne, and her little husband, Must be the ones who slander us, I’m thinking. Those whose own conduct’s most ridiculous, Are always quickest to speak ill of others;

To see him, you would say he’s ten times worse! His conduct in our late unpleasantness Had won him much esteem, and proved his courage In service of his king; but now he’s like A man besotted, since he’s been so taken With this Tartuffe.

He calls him brother, loves him A hundred times as much as mother, son, Daughter, and wife.

He tells him all his secrets And lets him guide his acts, and rule his conscience. He fondles and embraces him; a sweetheart Could not, I think, be loved more tenderly;

if he belches, ’tis a servant speaking. Master exclaims: “God bless you!”—Oh, he dotes Upon him! he’s his universe, his hero; He’s lost in constant admiration, quotes him On all occasions, takes his trifling acts For wonders, and his words for oracles.

The fellow knows his dupe, and makes the most on’t, He fools him with a hundred masks of virtue, Gets money from him all the time by canting, And takes upon himself to carp at us.

Even his silly coxcomb of a lackey Makes it his business to instruct us too; He comes with rolling eyes to preach at us, And throws away our ribbons, rouge, and patches.

Brother, your language smacks of atheism; And I suspect your soul’s a little tainted Therewith. I’ve preached to you a score of times That you’ll draw down some judgment on your head.

That is the usual strain of all your kind; They must have everyone as blind as they.

They call you atheist if you have good eyes; And if you don’t adore their vain grimaces, You’ve neither faith nor care for sacred things. No, no; such talk can’t frighten me; I know What I am saying; heaven sees my heart.

That is the usual strain of all your kind; They must have everyone as blind as they.

They call you atheist if you have good eyes; And if you don’t adore their vain grimaces, You’ve neither faith nor care for sacred things.

No, no; such talk can’t frighten me; I know What I am saying; heaven sees my heart. We’re not the dupes of all your canting mummers; There are false heroes—and false devotees;

And will you treat them both alike, and pay The selfsame honour both to masks and faces Set artifice beside sincerity, Confuse the semblance with reality, Esteem a phantom like a living person, And counterfeit as good as honest coin?

Men, for the most part, are strange creatures, truly!

You never find them keep the golden mean; The limits of good sense, too narrow for them, Must always be passed by, in each direction; They often spoil the noblest things, because They go too far, and push them to extremes.

Daughter, we can’t waste time upon this nonsense;

I know what’s good for you, and I’m your father.

True, I had promised you to young Valère; But, first, they tell me he’s inclined to gamble, And then, I fear his faith is not quite sound. I haven’t noticed that he’s regular At church.

I want none of your love.

Then I will love you in your own despite.

Yes, your honour’s dear to me; I can’t endure to see you made the butt Of all men’s ridicule.

I’m all wrought up, with your confounded nonsense; Now, once for all, I tell you hold your tongue.

Then mum’s the word; I’ll take it out in thinking.

Think all you please; but not a syllable To me about it, or … you understand!

But what can you expect?—if one is timid?—

But what is love worth, if it has no courage?

Am I not constant in my love for him? Is’t not his place to win me from my father?

Oh, stop, I beg you; try to find some way To help break off the match. I quite give in, I’m ready to do anything you say.

No, no, a daughter must obey her father, Though he should want to make her wed a monkey.

Besides, your fate is fine. What could be better! You’ll take the stagecoach to his little village, And find it full of uncles and of cousins, Whose conversation will delight you. Then You’ll be presented in their best society.

You mean you cannot love terrestrial things.

The heart within my bosom is not stone.

I well believe your sighs all tend to Heaven, And nothing here below can stay your thoughts.

Ah! Let him speak; you chide him wrongfully; You’d do far better to believe his tales. Why favour me so much in such a matter?

How can you know of what I’m capable?

And should you trust my outward semblance, brother, Or judge therefrom that I’m the better man? No, no; you let appearances deceive you; I’m anything but what I’m thought to be, Alas!

You try to put us off with specious phrases; But all your arguments are too far-fetched. Why take upon yourself the cause of Heaven?

Does Heaven need our help to punish sinners?

Leave to itself the care of its own vengeance, And keep in mind the pardon it commands us; Besides, think somewhat less of men’s opinions, When you are following the will of Heaven.

Besides, think somewhat less of men’s opinions, When you are following the will of Heaven. Shall petty fear of what the world may think Prevent the doing of a noble deed?

No!⁠—let us always do as Heaven commands, And not perplex our brains with further questions.

Already I have told you I forgive him; And that is doing, sir, as Heaven commands. But after this day’s scandal and affront Heaven does not order me to live with him.

To Dorine.

Oh no! A lover’s never hard to cheat, And self-conceit leads straight to self-deceit.

Bid him come down to me.

I can dispel these foolish fears, dear madam; I know the art of pacifying scruples Heaven forbids, ’tis true, some satisfactions; But we find means to make things right with Heaven. ’Tis a scoundrel speaking.

There is a science, madam, that instructs us How to enlarge the limits of our conscience According to our various occasions, And rectify the evil of the deed According to our purity of motive.

I’ll duly teach you all these secrets, madam; You only need to let yourself be guided. Content my wishes, have no fear at all; I answer for’t, and take the sin upon me.

In any case, your scruple’s easily Removed. With me you’re sure of secrecy, And there’s no harm unless a thing is known.

The public scandal is what brings offence, And secret sinning is not sin at all.

After coughing again. So then, I see I must resolve to yield; I must consent to grant you everything, And cannot hope to give full satisfaction Or win full confidence, at lesser cost. No doubt ’tis very hard to come to this;

What! Just because a rascal boldly duped you With pompous show of false austerity, Must you needs have it everybody’s like him, And no one’s truly pious nowadays? Leave such conclusions to mere infidels;

Distinguish virtue from its counterfeit, Don’t give esteem too quickly, at a venture, But try to keep, in this, the golden mean.

If you can help it, don’t uphold imposture; But do not rail at true devoutness, either; And if you must fall into one extreme, Then rather err again the other way.

His rights are armed; and this is how the scoundrel Seeks to secure the property he claims.

Man is a wicked animal, I’ll own it!

The least delay may still be fatal, sir. I have my carriage, and a thousand louis, Provided for your journey, at the door. Let’s lose no time; the bolt is swift to strike, And such as only flight can save you from.