Polly. Dear, dear father, do not tear me from him. I must speak; I have more to say to him. Oh, twist thy fetters about me that he may not haul me from thee!

Peach. Sure all women are alike! If ever they commit one folly, they are sure to commit another by exposing themselves.—Away! Not a word more! You are my prisoner now, hussy!

Air.—Irish Howl

Polly. No power on earth can e’er divide
The knot that sacred love hath tied.
When parents draw against our mind,
The true-love’s knot they faster bind.
Oh, oh ray, oh Amborah—Oh, oh, etc.

[Holding Macheath, Peachum pulling her.

[Exeunt Peachum and Polly.

Mac. I am naturally compassionate, wife, so that I could not use the wench as she deserved, which made you at first suspect there was something in what she said.

Lucy. Indeed, my dear, I was strangely puzzled.

Mac. If that had been the case, her father would never have brought me into this circumstance. No, Lucy, I had rather die than be false to thee.

Lucy. How happy am I if you say this from your heart! For I love thee so that I could sooner bear to see thee hanged than in the arms of another.

Mac. But couldst thou bear to see me hanged?

Lucy. Oh, Macheath, I can never live to see that day.

Mac. You see, Lucy, in the account of love, you are in my debt; and you must now be convinced that I rather choose to die than be another’s. Make me, if possible, love thee more, and let me owe my life to thee. If you refuse to assist me, Peachum and your father will immediately put me beyond all means of escape.

Lucy. My father, I know, hath been drinking hard with the prisoners, and I fancy he is now taking his nap in his own room. If I can procure the keys, shall I go off with thee, my dear?

Mac. If we are together, ’twill be impossible to lie concealed. As soon as the search begins to be a little cool, I will send to thee—till then, my heart is thy prisoner.

Lucy. Come, then, my dear husband! Owe thy life to me and, though you love me not, be grateful. But that Polly runs in my head strangely.

Mac. A moment of time may make us unhappy for ever.

Air.—The Lass of Patie’s Mill

Lucy. I, like the fox, shall grieve,

[Exeunt.