Page:Cyrano de Bergerac.djvu/64

52 My heavy mantle off I throw, And I draw my polished steel; Graceful as Phœbus, round I wheel, Alert at Scaramouch, A word in your ear, Sir Spark, I steal,—

At the envoi's end, I touch!

Better for you had you lain low; ''Where skewer my cock? In the heel?—'' In the heart, your ribbon blue below?— In the hip, and make you kneel? Ho for the music of clothing steel! ''—What now?—A hit? Not much!'' 'Twill be in the paunch the stroke I steal,

When, at the envoi, I touch.

Oh for a rhyme, a rhyme in o? You wriggle, starch-white, my eel? ''A rhyme! a rhyme! the white feather you'' show! ''Tac! I parry the point of your steel;'' —The point you hoped to make me feel; I open the line, now clutch Your spit, Sir Scullion,—show your zeal!

At the envoi's end, I touch!

Prince, pray Heaven for your soul's weal! ''I move a pace—lo, such! and such!'' Cut over,—feint!