Your Neck. I Want To Kiss It.

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.

All My Laurels You Have Riven Away, And My Roses; Yet In Spite Of You, There Is One Crown I Bear Away With Me... One Thing Without Stain, Unspotted From The World, In Spite Of Doom Mine Own! And That Is... My White Plume.

A Kiss, When All Is Said, What Is It? An Oath That's Given Closer Than Before; A Promise More Precise; The Sealing Of Confessions That Till Then Were Barely Breathed; A Rosy Dot Placed On The I In Loving.

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 Wit Is More Polished Than Your Mustache. The Truth Which I Speak Strikes More Sparks From Men's Hearts Than Your Spurs Do From The Cobblestones.