Cyrano.
Oh! we have our pockets full,
We poets, of love-letters, writ to Chloes,
Daphnes creations of our noddle-heads.
Our lady-loves,—phantasms of our brains,
—Dream-fancies blown into soap-bubbles! Come!
Take it, and change feigned love-words into true;
I breathed my sighs and moans haphazard-wise;
Call all these wandering love-birds home to nest.
You'll see that I was in these lettered lines,
—Eloquent all the more, the less sincere!
—Take it, and make an end!
Christian.
Were it not well
To change some words? Written haphazard-wise,
Will it fit Roxane?
Cyrano.
'Twill fit like a glove!
Christian.
Cyrano.
Ah, credulity of love! Roxane
Will think each word inspired by herself!
Christian.
My friend!
[He throws himself into Cyrano's arms.
They remain thus.]
