Molière’s Chair 

He wore the mask before he knew the play, 
a carpet-seller’s son with ink-stained hands, 
who traded silks for satire, night for day, 
and walked from law into the laughing stands.

They threw him apples—baked, not sweet— 
when tragedy betrayed his earnest tongue. 
Yet still he bowed, and found in comic beat 
a sharper blade than any hero swung.

He wrote in ...

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