Susan. My Lord!
Count. My Lady!
Susan. My Lady has sent me for your Lordship’s smelling-bottle; she has got the vapours.
Count. Here; and when she has done with it, borrow it for yourself,—it may be useful.
Susan. I the vapours, my Lord! Oh no, that’s too polite a disease for a Servant to pretend to!
Count. Fits may come;—Love so violent as yours cannot bear disappointment; and when Figaro marries Marcelina—
Susan. Oh, suppose the worst, my Lord, we can pay Marcelina with the Portion your Lordship has promised us!
Count. I promis’d you a portion?
Susan. If my ears did not deceive me, I understood as much.
Count. Yes, if you had pleas’d to understand me, but since you do not.—