Or tell me why you stare so at my nose!

THE BORE (staggered):
I. . .

CYRANO (walking straight up to him):
Well, what is there strange?

THE BORE (drawing back):
Your Grace mistakes!

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: