Countess. (Continuing her feigned voice). Because I am afraid.
Count. Thou seemest to have got a cold. (Takes the Countess’s hand between his own, and amorously strokes and kisses her fingers). What a sweet, delicate, Angel’s hand!—How smooth and soft!—How long and small the fingers!—What pleasure in the touch!—Ah! How different is this from the Countess’s hand!—
Countess. (Sighing). And yet you loved her once.
Count. Yes—Yes—I did so—But three Years of better Acquaintance has made the Marriage-state so respectable—And then Wives are so loving—when they do love, that is—that one is surprised when in search of Pleasure, to find Satiety.
Countess. Pleasure?—Love!
Count. Oh, no; Love is but the Romance of the Heart; Pleasure is its History—As for thee, my dear Susan, add but one grain more of Caprice to thy Composition and thou wilt make one of the most enticing, teazing, agreeable Mistresses.
Countess. ’Tis my Duty to oblige my Lord.
Figaro. Her Duty!—
Count. Yes—Women’s Duties are unlimited—They owe all—Men nothing.
Countess. Nothing?