Mac. If you doubt it, let me stay—and be hanged.
Polly. Oh, how I fear! how I tremble! Go—but when safety will give you leave, you will be sure to see me again. For till then Polly is wretched.
Air.—O the broom, etc.
[Parting and looking back at each other with fondness, be at one door, she at the other.]
Mac. The miser thus a shilling sees,
With sighs resigns it by degrees,
And fears ’tis gone for aye.
Polly. The boy thus, when his sparrow’s flown,
But soon as out of sight ’tis gone,
Whines, whimpers, sobs, and cries.
[Exeunt.
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