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292 That good, brave Christian: I would only ask That when my body shall be cold in clay You wear those sable mourning weeds for two, And mourn a while for me, in mourning him.

I swear it you!…

Not there! what, seated?—no!

Let no one hold me up—

Only the tree!

It comes. E'en now my feet have turned to stone,

My hands are gloved with lead!

But since Death comes, I meet him still afoot,

And sword in hand!

Cyrano!

Cyrano!