No rest but the grave for the pilgrim of love.
Blowsabel.
Recitative.
Oh! Blowsabel! my detested, you call in vain,
Oh! Blowsabel! echo hears and squalls again;
Her horrid voice repeats my name around,
And with her bawling all the streets resound.
Air.
A landlord who kept a snug liquor-shop pass’d me,