Oh, for a rhyme, a rhyme in o?—
You wriggle, starch-white, my eel?
A rhyme! a rhyme! The white feather you SHOW!
Tac! I parry the point of your steel;
—The point you hoped to make me feel;
I open the line, now clutch
Your spit, Sir Scullion—slow your zeal!
At the envoi’s end, I touch.
(He declaims solemnly):
Envoi.
Prince, pray Heaven for your soul’s weal!
I move a pace—lo, such! and such!
Cut over—feint!
(Thrusting):
What ho! You reel?
(The viscount staggers. Cyrano salutes):
At the envoi’s end, I touch!
(Acclamations. Applause in the boxes. Flowers and handkerchiefs are thrown down. The officers surround Cyrano, congratulating him. Ragueneau dances for joy. Le Bret is happy, but anxious. The viscount’s friends hold him up and bear him away.)
THE CROWD (with one long shout):
Ah!
A TROOPER:
’Tis superb!
A WOMAN:
A pretty stroke!
RAGUENEAU:
A marvel!
A MARQUIS:
A novelty!
LE BRET:
O madman!
THE CROWD (presses round Cyrano. Chorus of):
Compliments!
Bravo! Let me congratulate!. . .Quite unsurpassed!. . .
A WOMAN’S VOICE:
There is a hero for you!. . .