Yes, Sir, a poet! So much so that, while we play swords here, I mean--hop!--on the spur of the moment, to improvise for you a ballade. VICOMTE. A ballade? CYRANO. Yes. I'll wager you do not know what is a ballade. VICOMTE. But.... CYRANO (_as if reciting a lesson_). Well, then, a ballade is composed of three stanzas of eight lines each.... VICOMTE (_stamping impatiently_). Oh! CYRANO (_continuing_). Plus an Envoy of four lines. Twenty-eight lines in all, with only three rimes.... VICOMTE. You.... CYRANO. I am going to compose one while fighting, and when I come to the last line, Sir, I'll touch you! VICOMTE. You'll not! CYRANO. Be sure, I shall! (_Declaiming._) Ballade of the Duel Between Monsieur de Bergerac and a Coxcomb. VICOMTE. What is that, if you please? CYRANO. That is the title. THE AUDIENCE (_greatly excited_). Make room there!.... Capital!.... Stand back!.... Be silent!.... (_Tableau.--Circle of lookers-on in the pit,--marquises and officers, with the tradesmen and common people. Pages on each others' shoulders for a better view. All the women standing in the boxes. To the right, Guiche and his followers. To the left, Le Bret, Ragueneau, Cuigy, etc._). CYRANO (_closing his eyes for a moment_). Wait....I'm selecting my rimes....There now, I'm ready! (_He does as he says while speaking the verses._) My hat with grace I cast aside; Next, watch me, please, I slowly free The cloak in which I'm wont to stride; And then I draw my sword, you see. A Celadon[9] you have in me, A Scaramuccia very much; But, pygmy, moderate your glee, For, when I close th' Envoy, I'll touch! 'Twere better you had slept or died. O goose, where shall I puncture thee? Beneath the ribs? Above? Decide! Or through the breast, where ribbons be? The hilts are ringing. One, two, three! My sword, beware! is not a crutch. I'll strike according to decree, For, when I close th' Envoy, I'll touch! I seek in vain a rime in _ide_. You back--and whiten--let's agree Upon a word, say: trembling hide, So, tac! I parry, just a wee, Your vicious thrust. Now finish we! I open--quart--or something such---- Hold well that spit, you dog, or flee,[10] For, when I close th' Envoy, I'll touch! (_He announces with solemnity_). ENVOY.[11] Now, Prince, may heaven hear your plea! I follow, though you break and clutch. I cut--I feint--Be ready--Hee! (_He lunges._)