[As Barbarella is dragged off, the Great Tyrant lays out Pygar and sinuously crawls over him.]
Great Tyrant: Tell me, my fancy, fuzzy freak — what do you think of, when you make love to Barbarella?
Pygar: Make love? I do not understand.
Great Tyrant: Don't be coy with me — you are in no position. If only you had one eye in your head...
[In his "touching" style, he caresses her... features.]
Great Tyrant: ... you would see what a delight I am! My face, my body — all my things are a delight! An exquisite delight.
Pygar: What is it you want?
Great Tyrant: I shall share my delights with you. You shall make love to me.
Pygar: An angel does not make love. An angel is love.
Great Tyrant: Then you're a dead duck. Guards! To the Mathmos with this winged fruitcake!
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