(Just then a few dead leaves fall on Roxane's work.)
CYRANO.
Oh! withered leaves!
ROXANE (looking at the landscape).
Poor blondes of Venice hue,
How fast they fall!
CYRANO.
They fall, but see how well!
Their race is short, and still they sweetly show
How beauty e'er recoils from rottenness:
For, as they drop, they do not in their grace
Appear to fall, but rather to alight!
ROXANE.
Unusually sad thoughts for you!
CYRANO (recovering his presence of mind).