My Wit Is More Polished

I Have A Different Idea Of Elegance. I Don't Dress Like A Fop, It's True, But My Moral Grooming Is Impeccable. I Never Appear In Public With A Soiled Conscience, A Tarnished Honor, Threadbare Scruples, Or An Insult That I Haven't Washed Away. I'm Always Immaculately Clean, Adorned With Independence And Frankness. I May Not Cut A Stylish Figure, But I Hold My Soul Erect. I Wear My Deeds As Ribbons, My Wit Is Sharper Then The Finest Mustache, And When I Walk Among Men I Make Truths Ring Like Spurs.

My Heart Always Timidly Hides Itself Behind My Mind. I Set Out To Bring Down Stars From The Sky, Then, For Fear Of Ridicule, I Stop And Pick Little Flowers Of Eloquence.

A Kiss, When All Is Told, What Is It? An Oath Taken A Little Closer, A Promise More Exact. A Wish That Longs To Be Confirmed, A Rosy Circle Drawn Around The Verb 'to Love'. A Kiss Is A Secret Which Takes The Lips For The Ear, A Moment Of Infinity Humming Like A Bee, A Communion Tasting Of Flowers, A Way Of Breathing In A Little Of The Heart And Tasting A Little Of The Soul With The Edge Of The Lips!

A Man Does Not Fight To Win; It Is Better To Fight In Vain.

Roxane: His Face Is Like Yours, Burning With Spirit And Imagination. He Is Proud And Noble And Young And Fearless And Beautiful- Cyrano:(losing All His Colour.) Beautiful! Roxane: Yes. What's Wrong? Cyrano: With Me? Nothing. It's Only... Only... (displaying His Bandaged Hand, With A Little Smile.) This Fatal Wound.