Lancet, and scizzors, and razor, and comb, Your Figaro sells when he’s at home. But when he’s _from_ home, his trade’s billets-doux, Which he’ll carry for that man, or this man, or you. La ran, la lera, la ran, la la. How I am looked for--wherever I go, On this side a belle--on that side a beau. Where is my wig, you stupid pig, Just take this packet, under your jacket Figaro--Figaro--here, sir, here, Figaro up--Figaro down, Figaro, presto, all over town. Oh yes; I’m as quick as lightning’s bright flash, And what’s best of all, I earn plenty of cash. Oh brave Figaro--bravo bravissimo, Is there no better one--oh dear, dear me no. La ran, la lera, la ran, la la. This contented personage was rushing off to his shop when he went crash up against the count himself. “Good master!” “What--Figaro! Hush, be silent! I’m not known here.” “Surely--surely--surely--Senor.” It would be hardly within the bounds of possibility to believe that the grand count actually set to work, then and there, in the dark, to tell Figaro of his loves; but then it was Figaro--and the barber was a father confessor in all affairs of the heart. The count stated that he had fallen in love with a lady whom he took to be the daughter of an old physician--and he, count as he was, called himself Lindoro, and was, night and day, watching _that_ balcony. “_That_ window! Senor--you are lucky.” Then the barber set him right. Her name was Rosina--she was not the doctor’s daughter, but his ward--and she hated him; and he was jealous of her--and she was wretched, and he was wretched, and a very pretty house it was. As for him, Figaro, in that said house he was everything--barber, hairdresser, and surgeon too. He was in the full tide of chatter when the count started. Barber knew, without looking, that the window opened--and _she_ was in the balcony. Rosina--lovely as the night--stood in the balcony, holding a letter in her hand. She was wondering where somebody was. Crack!--she had barely got into the balcony than the old doctor was after her. “A fine morning, child. What letter’s that?” As she answered, she saw the proposed owner of the letter. “A letter--no--a piece of music. Oh, dear, it has fallen into the street--pray go and pick it up.” He required no recommendation. He trundled his jealous old legs to the street door, but the letter was delivered. He looked sharply about, while the young lady deplored that the wind had carried it away. “I’ll surely have that balcony walled up,” said the old doctor--“I surely will.” And he went in and barred the door. As for the letter--opened and read by Figaro--it stated that the lady had a laudible curiosity to know who and what was the serenader, and why he came there--that she was touched by his attentions; that she was wretched; that she hated her guardian; and that her name was Rosina.