The soul exhausted by these empty pastimes,
The gain of fine things be the loss of all things !
Roxane.
But wit ? I say ...
Cyrano.
In love 'tis crime, - 'tis hateful !
Turning frank loving into subtle fencing !
At last the moment comes, inevitable, -
- Oh, woe for those who never know that moment !
When feeling love exists in us, ennobling,
Each well-weighed word is futile and soul-saddening !
Roxane.
Well, if that moment's come for us - suppose it!
What words would serve you ?
Cyrano.
All, all, all, whatever
That came to me, e'en as they came, I 'd fling them
In a wild cluster, not a careful bouquet.
I love thee ! I am mad ! I love, I stifle !
Thy name is in my heart as in a sheep-bell,
And as I ever tremble, thinking of thee,
Ever the bell shakes, ever thy name ringeth !
All things of thine I mind, for I love all things ;
I know that last year on the twelfth of May-month,
To walk abroad, one day you changed your hair-plaits !
I am so used to take your hair for daylight
That, - like as when the eye stares on the sun's disc,
One sees long after a red blot on all things -
So, when I quit thy beams, my dazzled vision
Sees upon all things a blonde stain imprinted.
