rimming with blood so blue,
The bold Cadets of Gascony,
Of Carbon of Castel-Jaloux:

Eagle-eye, and spindle-shanks,
Fierce mustache, and wolfish tooth!
Slash-the-rabble and scatter-their-ranks;
Eagle-eye and spindle-shanks,
With a flaming feather that gayly pranks,
Hiding the holes in their hats, forsooth!
Eagle-eye and spindle-shanks,
Fierce mustache, and wolfish tooth!

'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk'
Are their gentlest sobriquets;
With Fame and Glory their soul is drunk!
'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk,'
In brawl and skirmish they show their spunk,
Give rendezvous in broil and fray;
'Pink-your-Doublet' and 'Slit-your-Trunk'
Are their gentlest sobriquets!

What, ho! Cadets of Gascony!
All jealous lovers are sport for you!
O Woman! dear divinity!
What, ho! Cadets of Gascony!
Whom scowling husbands quake to see.
Blow, 'taratara,' and cry 'Cuckoo.'
What, ho! Cadets of Gascony!
Husbands and lovers are game for you!

DE GUICHE (seated with haughty carelessness in an armchair brought quickly by
Ragueneau):
A poet! 'Tis the fashion of the hour!
--Will you be mine?

CYRANO:
No, Sir,--no man's!

DE GUICHE:
Last night
Your fancy pleased my uncle Richelieu.
I'll gladly say a word to him for you.

LE BRET (overjoyed):
Great Heavens!

DE GUICHE:
I imagine you have rhymed
Five acts, or so?

LE BRET (in Cyrano's ear):
Your play!--your 'Agrippine!'
You'll see it staged at last!

DE GUICHE:
Take them to him.

CYRANO (beginning to be tempted and attracted):
In sooth,--I would. . .

DE GUICHE:
He is a critic skilled:
He may correct a line or two, at most.

CYRANO (whose face stiffens at once):
Impossible! My blood congeals to think
That other hand should change a comma's dot.

DE GUICHE:
But when a verse approves itself to him
He pays it dear, good friend.

CYRANO:
He pays less dear
Than I myself; when a verse pleases me
I pay myself, and sing it to myself!

DE GUICHE:
You are proud.

CYRANO:
Really? You have noticed that?

A CADET (entering, with a string of old battered plumed beaver hats, full of
holes, slung on his sword):
See, Cyrano,--this morning, on the quay
What strange bright-feathered game we caught!
The hats
O' the fugitives. . .

CARBON:
'Spolia opima!'

ALL (laughing):
Ah! ah! ah!

CUIGY:
He who laid that ambush, 'faith!
Mu