ROXANE:
How?
So novel?
CYRANO (off his balance, trying to find the thread of his sentence):
Ay,—to be at last sincere;
Till now, my chilled heart, fearing to be mocked. . .
ROXANE:
Mocked, and for what?
CYRANO:
For its mad beating!—Ay,
My heart has clothed itself with witty words,
To shroud itself from curious eyes:—impelled
At times to aim at a star, I stay my hand,
And, fearing ridicule,—cull a wild flower!
ROXANE:
A wild flower’s sweet.
CYRANO:
Ay, but to-night—the star!
ROXANE:
Oh! never have you spoken thus before!
CYRANO:
If, leaving Cupid’s arrows, quivers, torches,
We turned to seek for sweeter—fresher things!
Instead of sipping in a pygmy glass
Dull fashionable waters,—did we try
How the soul slakes its thirst in fearless draught
By drinking from the river’s flooding brim!
ROXANE:
But wit?. . .
CYRANO:
If I have used it to arrest you
At the first starting,—now, ’twould be an outrage,
An insult—to the perfumed Night—to Nature—
To speak fine words that garnish vain love-letters!
Look up but at her stars! The quiet Heaven
Will ease our hearts of all things artificial;
I fear lest, ’midst the alchemy we’re skilled in
The truth of sentiment dissolve and vanish,—
The soul exhausted by these empty pastimes,
The gain of fine things be the loss of all things!