_Fig._ Oh! There’s no occasion for kissing, my Lord: he’ll return in the winter, and in the mean time he may kiss me.--The scene must now be changed my delicate Youth: you must not run up stairs and down, into the Women’s Chambers, play at Hunt-the-slipper, steal Cream, suck Oranges, and live upon Sweetmeats. Instead of that, Zounds! You must look bluff! Tan your face! Handle your musket! Turn to the right! Wheel to the left! And march to Glory.--At least if you are not stopt short by a Bullet. _Susan._ Fie, Figaro. _Countess._ (_Terrified._) What a Prophecy! _Fig._ Were I a Soldier I would make some of them scamper--But, come, come, my friends; let us prepare our feast against the evening. Marcelina I hear intends to disturb our Diversions. _Count._ That she will I can assure you. (_Aside_) I must go and send for her. (_going._) _Countess._ You will not leave us, my Lord? _Count._ I am undrest, you see. _Countess._ We shall see nobody but our own servants. _Count._ I must do what you please. Wait for me in the study, Basil. (_Exeunt Count, Countess, and Vassals._ _Manent Figaro, Basil and Page._ _Fig._ (_Retains the Page_) Come, come; let us study our parts well for the Play in the evening: and do not let us resemble those Actors who never play so ill as on the first night of a Piece; when Criticism is most watchful to detect Errors, and when they ought to play the best--{{“_We_ shall not have an opportunity of playing better to-morrow.”}} _Basil._ My part is more difficult than you imagine. _Figaro._ And you may be rewarded for it, in a manner you little expect. [_Aside._ _Page._ You forget, Figaro, that I am going. _Figaro._ And you wish to stay? (_In the same sorrowful tone._) _Page._ (_Sighs._) Ah yes. _Figaro._ Follow my advice, and so thou shalt. _Page._ How, how? _Figaro._ Make no murmuring, but clap on your boots, and seem to depart; gallop as far as the Farm, return to the Castle on foot, enter by the back way, and hide yourself till I can come to you. _Page._ And who shall teach Agnes her part, then? _Figaro._ Oh oh! _Basil._ Why, what the devil have you been about, young Gentleman, for these eight days past, during which you have hardly ever left her? Take care, Hannibal, take care, or your Scholar will give her Tutor a bad character.--Ah Hannibal! Hannibal! The Pitcher that goes often to the Well-- _Figaro._ Listen to the Pedant and his Proverb.--Well, and what says the wisdom of Nations--_The pitcher that goes often to the well_-- _Basil._ Stands a chance, sometime, to return full. _Figaro._ Not so foolish as I thought. End of ACT I. ACT II. SCENE, the COUNTESS’s Bed-Chamber. (_A state-bed in the back ground under an Alcove: three doors; one the entrance into the room, another into Susan’s room, and the third to the Countess’s dressing-room; a large window that opens to the street._) _The_ COUNTESS _seated_, SUSAN _waiting_.