m the bench under the balcony):
Mount then on the bench!

CYRANO (starting back alarmed):
No!

ROXANE:
How, you will not?

CYRANO (more and more moved):
Stay awhile! 'Tis sweet,. . .
The rare occasion, when our hearts can speak
Our selves unseen, unseeing!

ROXANE:
Why--unseen?

CYRANO:
Ay, it is sweet! Half hidden,--half revealed--
You see the dark folds of my shrouding cloak,
And I, the glimmering whiteness of your dress:
I but a shadow--you a radiance fair!
Know you what such a moment holds for me?
If ever I were eloquent. . .

ROXANE:
You were!

CYRANO:
Yet never till to-night my speech has sprung
Straight from my heart as now it springs.

ROXANE:
Why not?

CYRANO:
Till now I spoke haphazard. . .

ROXANE:
What?

CYRANO:
Your eyes
Have beams that turn men dizzy!--But to-night
Methinks I shall find speech for the first time!

ROXANE:
'Tis true, your voice rings with a tone that's new.

CYRANO (coming nearer, passionately):
Ay, a new tone! In the tender, sheltering dusk
I dare to be myself for once,--at last!
(He stops, falters):
What say I? I know not!--Oh, pardon me--
It thrills me,--'tis so sweet, so novel. . .

ROXANE:
How?
So novel?

CYRANO (off his balance, trying to find the thread of his sentence):
Ay,--to be at last sincere;
Till now, my chilled heart, fearing to be mocked. . .

ROXANE:
Mocked, and for what?

CYRANO:
For its mad beating!--Ay,
My heart has clothed itself with witty words,
To shroud itself from curious eyes:--impelled
At times to aim at a star, I stay my hand,
And, fearing ridicule,--cull a wild flower!

ROXANE:
A wild flower's sweet.

CYRANO:
Ay, but to-night--the star!

ROXANE:
Oh! never have you spoken thus before!

CYRANO:
If, leaving Cupid's arrows, quivers, torches,
We turned to seek for sweeter--fresher things!
Instead of sipping in a pygmy glass
Dull fashionable waters,--did we try
How the soul slakes its thirst in fearless draught
By drinking from the river's flooding brim!

ROXANE:
But wit?. . .

CYRANO:
If I have used it to arrest you
At the first starting,--now, 'twould be an outrage,
An insult--to the perfumed Night--to Nature--
To speak fine words that garnish vain love-letters!
Look up but at her stars! The quiet Heaven
Will ease our hearts of all things artificial;
I fear lest, 'midst the alchemy we're skil