[As Barbarella is dragged off, the Great Tyrant lays out Pygar and sinuously crawls over him.]

Tell me, my fancy, fuzzy freak — what do you think of, when you make love to Barbarella?

Make love? I do not understand.

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.]

... you would see what a delight I am! My face, my body — all my things are a delight! An exquisite delight.

What is it you want?

I shall share my delights with you. You shall make love to me.

An angel does not make love. An angel is love.

Then you're a dead duck. Guards! To the Mathmos with this winged fruitcake!