CYRANO (very politely):
If that Muse, Sir, who knows you not at all,
Could claim acquaintance with you--oh, believe
(Seeing how urn-like, fat, and slow you are)
That she would make you taste her buskin's sole!

THE PIT:
Montfleury! Montfleury! Come--Baro's play!

CYRANO (to those who are calling out):
I pray you have a care! If you go on
My scabbard soon will render up its blade!

(The circle round him widens.)

THE CROWD (drawing back):
Take care!

CYRANO (to Montfleury):
Leave the stage!

THE CROWD (coming near and grumbling):
Oh!--

CYRANO:
Did some one speak?

(They draw back again.)

A VOICE (singing at the back):