ROXANE:
In telling his love? why, ’tis not simple telling, ’tis dissertation, ’tis
analysis!
CYRANO:
How is he with the pen?
ROXANE:
Still better! Listen,—here:—
(Reciting):
‘The more of my poor heart you take
The larger grows my heart!’
(Triumphantly to Cyrano):
How like you those lines?
CYRANO:
Pooh!
ROXANE:
And thus it goes on. . .
‘And, since some target I must show
For Cupid’s cruel dart,
Oh, if mine own you deign to keep,
Then give me your sweet heart!’
CYRANO:
Lord! first he has too much, then anon not enough! How much heart does the
fellow want?
ROXANE:
You would vex a saint!. . .But ’tis your jealousy.
CYRANO (starting):
What mean you?
ROXANE:
Ay, your poet’s jealousy! Hark now, if this again be not tender-sweet?—
‘My heart to yours sounds but one cry:
If kisses fast could flee
By letter, then with your sweet lips
My letters read should be!
If kisses could be writ with ink,
If kisses fast could flee!’
CYRANO (smiling approvingly in spite of himself):
Ha! those last lines are,—hm!. . .hm!. . .
(Correcting himself—contemptuously):
—They are paltry enough!