Call no one. Leave me not; When you come back, I should be gone for aye. — Edmond Rostand

Valvert: Villain, clod-poll, flat-foot, refuse of the earth!

Cyrano: [taking off his hat and bowing as if the Vicomte had been introducing himself] Ah? … And mine, Cyrano-Savinien-Hercule of Bergerac!

Valvert: [exasperated] Buffoon!

Cyrano: [giving a sudden cry, as if seized with a cramp] Aï! …

Valvert: [who had started toward the back, turning] What is he saying now?

Cyrano: [screwing his face as if in pain] It must have leave to stir … it has a cramp! It is bad for it to be kept still so long!

Valvert: What is the matter?

Cyrano: My rapier prickles like a foot asleep!

Valvert: [drawing] So be it!

Cyrano: I shall give you a charming little hurt!

Valvert: [contemptous] Poet!

Cyrano: Yes, a poet, … and, to such an extent, that while we fence, I will, hop!, extempore, compose you a ballade!

Valvert: A ballade?

Cyrano: I fear you do not know what that is.

Valvert: But …

Cyrano: [as if saying a lesson] The ballade is composed of three stanzas of eight lines each …

Valvert: [stamps with his feet] Oh!

Cyrano: [continuing] And an envoi of four.

Valvert: You …

Cyrano: I will with the same breath fight you and compose one. And, at the last line, I will hit you. Valvert: Indeed you will not!

Cyrano: No? … [Declaiming]

Ballade of the duel which in Burgundy house

Monsieur de Bergerac fought with a jackanape …

Valvert: And what is that, if you please?

Cyrano: That is the title.

[ … ]

Cyrano: [closing his eyes a second] Wait. I am settling upon the rhymes. There. I have them. [in declaiming, he suits the action to the word]

Of my broad felt made lighter,

I cast my mantle broad,

And stand, poet and fighter,

To do and to record.

I bow, I draw my sword …

En garde! With steel and wit

I play you at first abord …

At the last line, I hit! [They begin fencing] You should have been politer;

Where had you best be gored?

The left side or the right — ah?

Or next your azure cord?

Or where the spleen is stored?

Or in the stomach pit?

Come we to quick accord …

At the last line, I hit! You falter, you turn whiter?

You do so to afford

Your foe a rhyme in "iter"? …

You thrust at me — I ward —

And balance is restored.

Laridon! Look to your spit! …

No, you shall not be floored

Before my cue to hit! [He announces solemnly] Envoi Prince, call upon the Lord! …

I skirmish … feint a bit …

I lunge! … I keep my word!

[The Vicomte staggers, Cyrano bows.]At the last line, I hit!''

No, In fairy tales

When to the ill-starred Prince the lady says

"I love you!" all his ugliness fades fast —

But I remain the same, up to the last!

Live, for I love you!