Christian: I'm tired of being my own rival.
Cyrano: My nose precedes me by fifteen minutes.
Ragueneau: No Cyrano. I lose my bet.
Le Bret: So much the better.
Audience: Montfleury! Montfleury.
Montfleury: Happy he... who far from court and city... Ah, how good... breathes the essence of the vernal wood, And who, when the breeze sings melodies.
Cyrano: Rogue! Didn't I order you off for a month?
Montfleury: What? Who's that?
Le Bret: Cyrano.
Ragueneau: I win.
Cyrano: King of fools. Off the stage.
Montfleury: Monsieur.
Cyrano: My dear love, I never loved you.
Cyrano: I'm losing my temper.
Montfleury: Help me gentlemen.
Cyrano: My life's work has been to prompt others and be forgotten. Remember that night when Christian came to your balcony? That moment sums up my life. While I was below in the shadows, others climbed up to kiss the sweet rose.
Cyrano: In a poets pocket you often find the product of an active imagination.
Cyrano: I say as death has me in his hooks, Moliere' has genius and Christian had good looks.
