Lyric: 'Is this a conch?. . .a Triton you?' Simple: 'When is the monument on view?' Rustic: 'That thing a nose? Marry-come-up! 'Tis a dwarf pumpkin, or a prize turnip!' Military: 'Point against cavalry!' Practical: 'Put it in a lottery! Assuredly 'twould be the biggest prize!' Or. . .parodying Pyramus' sighs. . . 'Behold the nose that mars the harmony Of its master's phiz! blushing its treachery!' --Such, my dear sir, is what you might have said, Had you of wit or letters the least jot: But, O most lamentable man!--of wit You never had an atom, and of letters You have three letters only!--they spell Ass! And--had you had the necessary wit, To serve me all the pleasantries I quote Before this noble audience. . .e'en so, You would not have been let to utter one-- Nay, not the half or quarter of such jest! I take them from myself all in good part, But not from any other man that breathes! DE GUICHE (trying to draw away the dismayed viscount): Come away, Viscount! THE VISCOUNT (choking with rage): Hear his arrogance! A country lout who. . .who. . .has got no gloves! Who goes out without sleeve-knots, ribbons, lace! CYRANO: True; all my elegances are within. I do not prank myself out, puppy-like; My toilet is more thorough, if less gay; I would not sally forth--a half-washed-out Affront upon my cheek--a conscience Yellow-eyed, bilious, from its sodden sleep, A ruffled honor,. . .scruples grimed and dull! I show no bravery of shining gems. Truth, Independence, are my fluttering plumes. 'Tis not my form I lace to make me slim, But brace my soul with efforts as with stays, Covered with exploits, not with ribbon-knots, My spirit bristling high like your mustaches, I, traversing the crowds and chattering groups Make Truth ring bravely out like clash of spurs! THE VISCOUNT: But, Sir. . . CYRANO: I wear no gloves? And what of that? I had one,. . .remnant of an old worn pair, And, knowing not what else to do with it, I threw it in the face of. . .some young fool. THE VISCOUNT: Base scoundrel! Rascally flat-footed lout! CYRANO (taking off his hat, and bowing as if the viscount had introduced himself): Ah?. . .and I, Cyrano Savinien Hercule de Bergerac (Laughter.) THE VISCOUNT (angrily): Buffoon! CYRANO (calling out as if he had been seized with the cramp): Aie! Aie! THE VISCOUNT (who was going away, turns back): What on earth is the fellow saying now? CYRANO (with grimaces of pain): It must be moved--it's getting stiff, I vow, --This comes of leaving it in idleness! Aie!. . . THE VISCOUNT: What ails you? CYRANO: The cramp! cramp in my sword! THE VISCOUNT (drawing his sword): Good! CYRANO: You shall feel a charming little stroke! THE VISCOUNT (contemptuously): Poet!. . . CYRANO: Ay, poet, Sir! In proof of which, While we fence, presto! all extempore I will compose a ballade. THE VISCOUNT: A ballade?