To-night, a Child of Chance is hither brought, Who could be neither _borrow’d_, _begg’d_, nor _bought_; Nay, so alert was said to be the Droll, ’Twas well affirm’d he was not to be _stole_; But hence dispatch’d, back’d by Apollo’s warrant, A messenger has _kidnapp’d_ this Wag-errant; Poetic Fugitive, has hither dragg’d him, And, safely here arriv’d, has now ungagg’d him, To plead before this Court, his whole amenance; Where, should you sentence him to public Penance, Oh, sad reverse! how would he foam and fret, And sigh for Paris and his sweet _Soubrette_! Where twice ten thousand tongues are proud to greet him, And wing’d Applause, on tip-toe, stands to meet him; Where the grim Guard, in nightly rapture, stands, And grounds his musquet to get at his hands; Where the retentive Pitt, all prone t’adore him, Repeat his _Bon mots_ half a bar before him; While every _Bel-Esprit_, at every hit, Grows fifty-fold more conscious of his Wit. If _far fetch’d and dear bought_ give Trifles worth, Sure you’ll applaud our FIGARO’s second birth. Nought of his present merit must we say; Bear but in mind, OUR Day’s a SPANISH Day. Cupid, in warmer Climes, urg’d by the Grape, Calls not each petty violence a Rape! But oft his Votaries leaves intoxicate, Hence FIGARO himself is illegitimate. Sanction’d by you, howe’er, this little Blot, So much in fashion, will be soon forgot; That Signature which each kind hand bestows, Shall make him well receiv’d where’er he goes! DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. Count Almaviva, Mr. LEWIS. Don Guzman, Mr. QUICK. Doctor Bartholo, Mr. WILSON. Figaro, Mr. BONNOR. Antonio, Mr. EDWIN. Basil, Mr. WEWITZER. Doublefee, Mr. THOMPSON. Bounce, Mr. STEVENS. Courier, Mr. JONES. Crier of the Court, Mr. BATES. Servant, Mr. NEWTON. Page, Mrs. MARTYR. Countess, Mrs. BATES. Marcelina, Mrs. WEBB. Agnes, Miss WEWITZER. Susan, Miss YOUNGE. Counsellors, Guards, Vassals. ☞ _The Passages put between inverted Commas are omitted in the Representation._ THE FOLLIES OF A DAY. ACT I. SCENE, the Castle of Count ALMAVIVA. FIGARO _and_ SUSAN. (_Figaro measuring the chamber with a wand._) _Figaro._ Eighteen feet by twenty-six, good. _Susan._ What art thou so busy about? _Figaro._ Measuring, to try if the bed our noble Lord intends to give us will stand well here. _Susan._ In this chamber! _Figaro._ Yes. _Susan._ I won’t lie in this chamber. _Figaro._ Why so? _Susan._ I tell you I won’t lie in this chamber. _Figaro._ Well but---- _Susan._ I don’t like it. _Figaro._ Your reason.