_Figaro._ “There are Truths that may be spoken: such as the Peccadillos of a poor Rascal! Truths that may not be spoken: such as the Robberies of a rich Rascal--There are your Truths comprehensible: such as that two and two make four; and your Truths incomprehensible: such as that two and two make five--Then there are your Tradesman’s Truths, which he retails to his Customers, your Lover’s Truths, which he pours wholesale into his Mistress’s ear--Your Courtier’s Truths, on which he feeds his Dependants and Parasites--Your Court of Law, or Kiss-the-Book Truths, which are the daily support of a _vast_ number of _very_ honest people--There are also your physical and metaphysical Truths--Your old Truths and your new Truths--Your heterodox and orthodox Truths--Your Mahometan Truths, your Jewish Truths, and your--other kind of truths, concerning which there never was nor ever will be any doubt--Not to mention your Truths _in_ fashion: such as that Idleness, Ignorance, Dissipation, Gaming and Seduction are the requisites of a Gentleman--And your Truths _out_ of fashion: such as that Gentleness, Obedience, Œconomy, and connubial Love are the requisites of a _Gentlewoman_. _Susan._ “I find by your account of the matter, Figaro, that poor Truth, like a Lottery Ticket, is so divided and sub-divided, so halved, quartered, cut, carv’d, split and spliced, it is no where entire to be found. _Figaro._ “No where. _Susan._ “And moreover, that what is Truth to-day may be a Lie to-morrow. _Figaro._ “May be! Must be. _Susan._ “Consequently, that in less than twenty-four hours, my very tender submissive, ardent Lover may be metamorphosed into an arbitrary, cold, haughty _Husband_. _Figaro._ “Impossible!--Impossible, my Susan! As it is for thee, my gentle, kind, and beauteous Bride, to be transformed into an ill-tempered, extravagant slatternly _Wife_. _Susan._ “I understand thee”}}--Well, Well--We will endeavour to convert the iron Bands of Matrimony into a flowery Wreath which Love shall teach us to bear lightly and joyously through Life. _Figaro._ Aye, and thus live a happy Exception to the established usage of a mad World. _Susan._ But prithee, who is to go disguised and meet the Count? _Figaro._ Who?--Nobody--Let him wait and fret, and bite his Nails--I never meant thou shouldst go. _Susan._ I assure thee I never had any inclination. {{_Figaro._ “Is that the real Truth, Susan?” _Susan._ “What! Thinkest thou I am as learned as thou art? And that I keep several sorts of Truths?”}} _Figaro._ (_With fond Vivacity_). And dost thou love me? _Susan._ (_Tenderly_). Too much, I doubt. _Figaro._ Ah!--That’s but little. _Susan._ How! _Figaro._ In Love’s Creed, too much is not even enough. _Susan._ I understand nothing of this over-refinement, but I feel I shall love my Husband most heartily. _Figaro._ Keep thy word, and put our modern Wives to the blush. _Susan._ Afford them a subject to laugh and point at, thou mean’st. _Enter the_ COUNTESS.