“Ah! but one Sergeant Belcore would break the hearts of a thousand women. Let him buy the elixir of love, ten crowns a bottle. I, Doctor Dulcamara, only sell it. Who subdued the sweet Adina? I, Doctor Dulcamara, did!” “Cursed mountebank! may you and your coach fall into the next ditch.” “He! he! he! she only marries him because his rich uncle is dead.” This was the malicious remark of Gianetta. For one moment Adina drew away. The next moment Nemorino drew closer to Adina. Adina did not withdraw. “And pray, who made him die?” “Why, rustics all, ’twas I.” “Oh! listen, rustics, listen, if either has an uncle, Almost dead with--say lumbago, phythsics, or carbuncle, I’ll kill him, or I’ll cure him, precisely as you say; But this way, or the other, my friends, you’ll have to pay, “I, present, now, Who make this bow, Am Doctor Dulcamara. In France I’m known, I’m famed alone, In Venice and Ferrara Such things I’ve done, That more than one, Have said I am--no matter; But this I know, Where’er I go, I make no little clatter. “Oh, rustics, rustics, rustics, if e’er you would grow fat, To purchase these my bottles ’tis the best thing to be at, Women--ye maidens who’d in the waist be thin, Try one bottle; ’tis far better than lacing yourselves in. “You soldiers, there, Who court the fair, I pray you make one trial. Why, sure as fate, Sure as I’m great, You’ll ignore the word denial Thank you; and you, Four crowns, ’twill do. I am great Dulcamara, But two? take three! Cash hand to me! I’m famed in Carrara. “Oh, every one, or old, or young, or you of middle age, To do all things--I don’t care what--I doctor do engage. Grow rich, grow poor, grow young, grow old, I’m Doctor Dulcamara, Famed north, famed south, and as I’ve said, I think, in far Carrara. “You want a head; No sooner said, Than done--if I’m your doctor. Your skin, I ween, I’ll color green Or make you look a Chocktaw. But mind you all, Both great and small, Don’t draw away afraid, oh! The money bring For every thing, Dulcamara must be paid, oh!” And after this happy conclusion, who shall say there is not _some_ virtue in the ELIXIR OF LOVE. IL BARBIERE DI SIVIGLIA. (ROSSINI). THE BARBER OF SEVILLE. CHAPTER I. The barber, Figaro, was, in his way, a blessing. I don’t mean to say for one moment that he was at all equal to any one benison uttered by any one ecclesiastic in the quaint old city of Seville; yet I do assert, and plainly, he was a blessing--Figaro, barber and bleeder of Seville. For, besides being a barber, a Spanish barber, Figaro _was_ a bleeder; and in Figaro’s days, barbers were of infinitely more importance than they are now.