Béralde is at the end of his rope. His foolish brother, Argan,
Alas! Brother, these are pure fancies, with which we deceive ourselves. At all times, there have crept among men brilliant fancies in which we believe, because they flatter us, and because it would be well if they were true. When a doctor speaks to us of assisting, succouring nature, of removing what is injurious to it, by giving it what it is defective in, of restoring it, and giving back to it the full exercise of its functions, when he speaks of purifying the blood, of refreshing the bowels and the brain, of correcting the spleen, of rebuilding the lungs, of renovating the liver, of fortifying the heart, of re-establishing and keeping up the natural heat, and of possessing secrets wherewith to lengthen life of many years--he repeats to you the romance of physic. But when you test the truth of what he has promised you, you find that it all ends in nothing; it is like those beautiful dreams which only leave you in the morning the regret of having believed in them.
Molière, The Imaginary Invalid, Project Gutenberg, 2012, p. 96.
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