ORGON
You will, eh?

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

ORGON
Won't you be still?

DORINE
'Twould be a sin to let you make this match.

ORGON
Won't you be still, I say, you impudent viper!

DORINE
What! you are pious, and you lose your temper?

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

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

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