CYRANO:
Fear nothing. Send it. It will suit.
CHRISTIAN:
But have you. . .?
CYRANO:
Oh! We have our pockets full,
We poets, of love-letters, writ to Chloes,
Daphnes—creations of our noddle-heads.
Our lady-loves,—phantasms of our brains,
—Dream-fancies blown into soap-bubbles! Come!
Take it, and change feigned love-words into true;
I breathed my sighs and moans haphazard-wise;
Call all these wandering love-birds home to nest.
You’ll see that I was in these lettered lines,
—Eloquent all the more, the less sincere!
—Take it, and make an end!
CHRISTIAN:
Were it not well
To change some words? Written haphazard-wise,
Will it fit Roxane?
CYRANO:
’Twill fit like a glove!
CHRISTIAN:
But. . .
CYRANO:
Ah, credulity of love! Roxane
Will think each word inspired by herself!
CHRISTIAN:
My friend!
(He throws himself into Cyrano’s arms. They remain thus.)