DAMIS, ORGON, CLEANTE
What! father, can the scoundrel threaten you,
Forget the many benefits received,
And in his base abominable pride
Make of your very favours arms against you?
Too true, my son. It tortures me to think on’t.
Let me alone, I’ll chop his ears off for him.
We must deal roundly with his insolence;
‘Tis I must free you from him at a blow;
‘Tis I, to set things right, must strike him down.
Spoke like a true young man. Now just calm down,
And moderate your towering tantrums, will you?
We live in such an age, with such a king,
That violence can not advance our cause.