So here we have the nose that on its master came To ruin harmony! The traitor's red for shame! That is about what you might have said, dear boy, if you had a sprinkling of letters and a bit of humour. Of humour, though, lamentable being, you never had an atom; and, as to letters, you never had but the four that spell the word Fool!--Some invention is requisite for extravagant jests before such an audience, but, even if you had it, you could not have uttered a quarter of the half of the beginning of what I said; for I may be willing to serve such sport myself, but I allow nobody to serve it to _me_. GUICHE (_endeavouring to lead away the Vicomte_). Vicomte, pay no attention to him! VICOMTE (_overwhelmed_). Such arrogance! An insignificant little squire .... who .... who .... doesn't even wear gloves!....and who sallies forth without ribbons, bows or trimmings! CYRANO. 'Tis morally I have my elegance, I do not dress as does a fop, but I Am better groomed than some more richly clad. I'd not set forth with traces of neglect About me, say: an insult left unwashed, A conscience still confused and half asleep, My honour soiled, or scruples out of shape. When I proceed, I do so clean and bright, With truthful independence for a plume. 'Tis not my form I lace to hold it up, It is my soul I try to elevate! The ribbons that I wear are only deeds; I twist perhaps my wit like a mustache; But then I cause, as I go through your groups, Above the clash of spurs, the truth to ring! VICOMTE. But, Sir .... CYRANO. I have no gloves on?.... What matters it? I did have one left from a very old pair! One day I found it somewhat in the way .... and I left it on somebody's face. VICOMTE. Knave, puppy, flat-footed ridiculous bully! CYRANO (_taking off his hat and bowing, as if the Vicomte had just presented himself_). Ah! delighted!.... and I: Cyrano, Savinian, Hercules de Bergerac. (_Laughter around._) VICOMTE (_exasperated_). Buffoon! CYRANO (_uttering a cry as if he had a cramp_). Ay!.... VICOMTE (_who was leaving, returning_). What is it now? CYRANO (_grinning as if in pain_). I must move it, for it is asleep.... What a mistake to let it remain inactive.... Ay!.... VICOMTE. What ails you? CYRANO. It's my sword that's tingling! VICOMTE (_drawing his sword_). Be it so! CYRANO. I'll show you a neat little thrust. VICOMTE (_disdainfully_). Poet! CYRANO.