CYRANO:
How now? Is’t soft and dangling, like a trunk?. . .
THE BORE (same play):
I never. . .
CYRANO:
Is it crook’d, like an owl’s beak?
THE BORE:
I. . .
CYRANO:
Do you see a wart upon the tip?
THE BORE:
Nay. . .
CYRANO:
Or a fly, that takes the air there? What
Is there to stare at?
THE BORE:
Oh. . .
CYRANO:
What do you see?
THE BORE:
But I was careful not to look—knew better.