Recitative.—Mr. Wells.
Oh, I have wrought much evil with my spells!
An ill I can’t undo!
This is too bad of you, J. W. Wells—
What wrong have they done you?
And see—another love-lorn lady comes—
Alas, poor stricken dame!
A gentle pensiveness her life benumbs—
And mine, alone, the blame!
(Sits at foot of market cross.)