Quite fearless must be he who fought so many thus. CYRANO (_writing_). And I am like to faint, outdone, when you appear. SECOND POET (_helping himself to a cake_). What new rimes can you give us, Ragueneau? CYRANO (_writing_). Who loves you!.... (_He stops just as he was going to sign, rises, folds the letter and puts it into his doublet._) Signature unnecessary. I'll hand her the letter myself. RAGUENEAU (_to Second Poet_). I have put a recipe into verse. THIRD POET (_settling near a tray of tarts_). Oh! let us hear the lines. FOURTH POET. This cake is crooked. Make it straight. (_Eats it._) SECOND POET. We are listening. THIRD POET. This tart will lose its cream. We'll save it. (_Eats the tart._) SECOND POET (_breaking off and eating a piece of the candied lyre_). The only time perhaps a lyre's fed its man. RAGUENEAU (_who has been preparing to recite, coughing, settling his cap and striking an attitude_). A recipe in verse.... SECOND POET (_to First Poet_). Why! you are breakfasting! FIRST POET (_to Second Poet_). And you are dining, friend! RAGUENEAU. HOW TO MAKE ALMOND TARTS. Beat up to foam, discarding dregs, Your choice of eggs. Add carefully into the foam Some citron juice that's new and stout; Then lengthen out With milk of almonds made at home. Next, coat with dough, both fresh and sound, Below, around, Such moulds as pastry-cooks prepare. Add sweetening to suit your taste Into the paste. Then pour quite slowly and with care Your foam into each well[14], so well That ev'ry well, When it is baked to blondness, starts To seek the walks that pleasure sings. These seemly things Are rightly christened: almond tarts. THE POETS (_mouths full_). Most exquisite! Divine! ONE OF THE POETS (_choking_). Humph! (_They go to the rear, still eating. Cyrano, who has been watching them, goes up to Ragueneau._) CYRANO. They seem to drink your verse, my friend; but see you not How they assimilate your stock of eatables? RAGUENEAU (_in low tone, smiling_). I see, but notice not, for fear I'd trouble them; And reading so my lines affords me double joy, Since thus I satisfy a weakness that I own, And feed the while poor souls whose pressing need is food! CYRANO (_striking him on the shoulder_). I like you, Ragueneau!....