It's my sword that's tingling!
VICOMTE (drawing his sword).
Be it so!
CYRANO.
I'll show you a neat little thrust.
VICOMTE (disdainfully).
Poet!
CYRANO.
Yes, Sir, a poet! So much so that, while we play swords here, I mean—hop!—on the spur of the moment, to improvise for you a ballade.