LE BRET:
Who is this lady?
CYRANO:
She’s a danger mortal,
All unsuspicious—full of charms unconscious,
Like a sweet perfumed rose—a snare of nature,
Within whose petals Cupid lurks in ambush!
He who has seen her smile has known perfection,
—Instilling into trifles grace’s essence,
Divinity in every careless gesture;
Not Venus’ self can mount her conch blown sea-ward,
As she can step into her chaise a porteurs,
Nor Dian fleet across the woods spring-flowered,
Light as my Lady o’er the stones of Paris!. . .
LE BRET:
Sapristi! all is clear!
CYRANO:
As spiderwebs!
LE BRET:
Your cousin, Madeleine Robin?
CYRANO:
Roxane!
LE BRET:
Well, but so much the better! Tell her so!
She saw your triumph here this very night!
CYRANO:
Look well at me—then tell me, with what hope
This vile protuberance can inspire my heart!
I do not lull me with illusions—yet
At times I’m weak: in evening hours dim
I enter some fair pleasance, perfumed sweet;
With my poor ugly devil of a nose
I scent spring’s essence—in the silver rays
I see some knight—a lady on his arm,
And think ‘To saunter thus ’neath the moonshine,
I were fain to have my lady, too, beside!’
Thought soars to ecstasy. . .O sudden fall!
—The shadow of my profile on the wall!
LE BRET (tenderly):
My friend!. . .
CYRANO:
My friend, at times ’tis hard, ’tis bitter,
To feel my loneliness—my own ill-favor. . .