Cyrano.
The fairest?… Ay, the fairest of the world,
Most brilliant—most refined—most golden-haired?
Le Bret.
Who is this lady?
Cyrano.
Who is this lady? She's a danger mortal,
All unsuspicious,—full of charms unconscious,
Like a sweet perfumed rose,—a snare of nature,
Within whose petals Cupid lurks in ambush!
He who has seen her smile has known perfection,
—Instilling into trifles grace's essence,
Divinity in every careless gesture;
Not Venus' self can mount her conch blown seaward,
As she can step into her chaise à porteurs,
Nor Dian fleet across the woods spring-flowered,
Light as my Lady o'er the stones of Paris!…
Le Bret.
Sapristi! all is clear!
Cyrano.
Sapristi! all is clear! As spider-webs!
Le Bret.
Your cousin, Madeleine Robin?
Cyrano.
Your cousin, Madeleine Robin? Roxane!
Le Bret.
Well, but so much the better! Tell her so!
She saw your triumph here this very night!
