Le Bret: Oh! Lay aside that pride of the musketeer, Fortune and fame await you. Cyrano de Bergerac: Ay, and then? Seek a protector, choose a patron out, And like the crawling ivy round a tree, That licks the bark to gain the trunks support, Climb high by creeping ruse instead of force? Dedicate verse to bankers? Play buffoon In cringing hope to see, at last, A non-disapproving smile on a patrons lips? Learn to swallow toads? Oily-tongued, to win the oil of praise, Flatter the great man to his very nose? Be scared of being thought paltry? Prefer social visits to poetry? Wear the knees of my breaches through, Bribe editors to spread abroad my verses? Grow pale, fear, calculate? No! No! No! But... sing? Dream, laugh, go lightly, solitary, free, Be alone, have a choice, have a watchful eye, and a powerful voice, Wear my hat awry, Fight for a poem if I like, And perhaps even die. Never care about fame or fortune, And even travel to the moon. Triumph by chance on my own merit, And disdain the tendrils of the parasitic vine. Perhaps Ill not get far. But Ill get there alone.
Posted on: Sat, 29 Nov 2014 13:28:35 +0000
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