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ORGON. Just Heaven! Can what I hear be credited? TARTUFFE. Yes, brother, I am wicked, I am guilty, A miserable sinner, steeped in evil, The greatest criminal that ever lived. Each moment of my life is stained with soilures; And all is but a mass of crime and filth; Heaven, for my punishment, I see it plainly, Would mortify me now. Whatever wrong They find to charge me with, I'll not deny it But guard against the pride of self-defence. Believe their stories, arm your wrath against me, And drive me like a villain from your house; I cannot have so great a share of shame But what I have deserved a greater still.

Writing is a little bit like prostitution. First you do it for love. Then you do it for a few friends. Then you do it for money.

Mais, supposé, comme il est vrai, que les exercices de la piété souffrent des intervelles et que les hommes aient besoin de divertissement, je soutiens qu'on ne leur en peut trouver un qui soit plus innocent que la comédie.

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Ur. What is your ailment, then? When did it seize you? Cl. Above three hours ago; and I brought it from the Palais Royal. Ur. How? Cl. I have just seen, as a punishment for my sins, that villainous rhapsody The School for Wives. I feel still a twinge from the-fainting-fit which it gave me; I believe I shall not be myself again for a fortnight.