Mrs. Peach. What! is the wench turned fool? A highwayman’s wife, like a soldier’s, hath a little of his pay as of his company.

Peach. And had not you the common views of a gentlewoman in your marriage, Polly?

Polly. I don’t know what you mean, sir.

Peach. Of a jointure, and of being a widow.

Polly. But I love him, sir; how, then, could I have thoughts of parting with him?

Peach. Parting with him! Why, that is the whole scheme and intention of all marriage articles. The comfortable estate of widowhood is the only hope that keeps up a wife’s spirits. Where is the woman who would scruple to be a wife, if she had it in her power to be a widow whenever she pleased? If you have any views of this sort, Polly, I shall think the match not so very unreasonable.

Polly. How I dread to hear your advice! Yet I must beg you to explain yourself.

Peach. Secure what he hath got; have him peached the next sessions; and, then, at once you are made a rich widow.

Polly. What! murder the man I love! The blood runs cold at my heart with the very thought of it.

Peach. Fie, Polly! what hath murder to do in the affair? Since the thing sooner or later must happen, I dare say the Captain himself would like that we should get the reward for his death sooner than a stranger. Why, Polly, the Captain knows that as ’tis his employment to rob, so ’tis ours to take robbers. Every man in his business. So that there is no malice in the case.

Mrs. Peach. Aye, husband, now you have nicked the matter! To have him peached is the only thing could ever make me forgive her.

Air.—Now ponder well, ye parents dear

Polly. Oh, ponder well, be not severe,

Mrs. Peach. But your duty to your parents, hussy, obliges you to hang him. What would many a wife give for such an opportunity!

Polly. What is a jointure, what is widowhood to me? I know my heart; I cannot survive him.

Air.—Le printemps rappelle aux armes

Mrs. Peach. What! is the fool in love in earnest then? I hate thee for being particular. Why, wench, thou art a shame to thy very sex.

Polly. But hear me, mother. If you ever loved—.

Mrs. Peach. Those cursed play-books she reads have been her ruin. One word more, hussy, and I shall knock your brains out, if you have any.