Who takes a woman must be undone,
That basilisk is sure to kill.
The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets,
So he that tastes woman, woman, woman,
He that tastes woman, ruin meets.
To what a woeful plight have I brought myself! Here must I (all day long till I am hanged) be confined to hear the reproaches of a wench who lays her ruin at my door. I am in the custody of her father; and to be sure if he knows of the matter, I shall have a fine time on ’t betwixt this and my execution. But I promised the wench marriage. What signifies a promise to a woman? Does not man in marriage itself promise a hundred things that he never means to perform? Do all we can, women will believe us; for they look upon a promise as an excuse for following their own inclinations. But here comes Lucy, and I cannot get from her. Would I were deaf!
Enter Lucy
Lucy. You base man, you! How can you look me in the face after what hath passed between us? See here, perfidious wretch, how I am forced to bear about the load of infamy you have laid upon me! Oh, Macheath, thou hast robbed me of my quiet. To see thee tortured would give me pleasure.
Air.—A lovely lass to a friar came
In her trap in the morning taken,
With pleasure her heart goes pit-a-pat,
In revenge for her loss of bacon;
Then she throws him
To the dog or cat
To be worried, crushed, and shaken.
Mac. Have you no bowels, no tenderness, my dear Lucy, to see a husband in these circumstances?
Lucy. A husband!
Mac. In every respect but the form; and that, my dear, may be said over us at any time. Friends should not insist upon ceremonies. From a man of honour his word is as good as his bond.
Lucy. ’Tis the pleasure of all you fine men to insult the women you have ruined.
Air.—’Twas when the sea was roaring
Who lie and swear in jest,
To cheat unguarded creatures
Of virtue, fame, and rest!
Whoever steals a shilling
Through shame the guilt conceals;
In love the perjured villain
With boasts the theft reveals.
Mac. The very first opportunity, my dear (have but patience), you shall be my wife in whatever manner you please.
Lucy. Insinuating monster! And so you think I know nothing of the affair of Miss Polly Peachum? I could tear thy eyes out!
Mac. Sure, Lucy, you can’t be such a fool as to be jealous of Polly?
Lucy. Are you not married to her, you brute you?
Mac. Married! Very good! The wench gives it out only to vex thee and to ruin me in thy good opinion. ’Tis true, I go to the house; I chat with girl; I kiss her; I say a thousand things to her (as all gentlemen do) that mean nothing—to divert myself. And now the silly jade hath set it about that I am married to her, to let me know what she would be at. Indeed, my dear Lucy, these violent passions may be of ill consequence to a woman in your condition.
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