MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: There is nothing but prose or verse?
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.
MONSIEUR JOURDAIN: No, I tell you, I want only those words in the
note, but turned stylishly, well arranged, as is necessary. Please
tell me, just to see, the diverse ways they could be put.
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