PHILOSOPHY MASTER: No, sir, everything that is not prose is verse,
and everything that is not verse is prose.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: And when one speaks, what is that then?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Prose.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: What! When I say, "Nicole, bring me my slippers,
and give me my nightcap," that's prose?

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Yes, Sir.

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: By my faith! For more than forty years I have
been speaking prose without knowing anything about it, and I am
much obliged to you for having taught me that. I would like then to
put into a note to her: "Beautiful marchioness, your lovely eyes
make me die of love," but I want that put in a gallant manner and
be nicely turned.

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: Put it that the fires of her eyes reduce your
heart to cinders; that you suffer night and day for her the
torments of a . . .

MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: No, no, no. I want none of that; I only want you
to say "Beautiful marchioness, your lovely eyes make me die of
love."

PHILOSOPHY MASTER: The thing requires a little lengthening.