Cyrano.
Look well at me,—then tell me, with what hope
This vile protuberance can inspire my heart!
I do not lull me with illusions,—yet
At times I'm weak: in evening hours dim
I enter some fair pleasaunce, perfumed sweet;
With my poor ugly devil of a nose
I scent spring's essence,—in the silver rays
I see some knight,—a lady on his arm,
And think, 'To saunter thus 'neath the moonshine,
I were fain to have my lady, too, beside!'
Thought soars to ecstasy,… O sudden fall!
The shadow of my profile on the wall!
Le Bret
[tenderly].
My friend!…
Cyrano.
My friend!… My friend, at times 'tis hard, 'tis bitter,
To feel my loneliness,—my own ill-favour…
Le Bret
[taking his hand].
You weep?
Cyrano.
You weep? No, never! Think, how vilely suited
Adown this nose a tear its passage tracing!
I never will, while of myself I'm master,
Let the divinity of tears—their beauty
Be wedded to such common ugly grossness!
Nothing more solemn than a tear,—sublimer;
And I would not by weeping turn to laughter
The grave emotion that a tear engenders!
