Lucy. ’Tis Lucy speaks.
Polly. Is thus true love requited?
Lucy. My heart is bursting.
Polly. Mine too breaks.
Lucy. Must I—
Polly. Must I be slighted?
Mac. What would you have me say, ladies? You see this affair will soon be at an end without my disobliging either of you.
Peach. But the settling this point, Captain, might prevent a lawsuit between your two widows.
Air.—Tom Tinker’s my true love, etc.
Mac. Which way shall I turn me? How can I decide? Wives, the day of our death, are as fond as a bride. One wife is too much for most husbands to hear, But two at a time there’s no mortal can bear. This way, and that way, and which way I will, What would comfort the one, t’ other wife would take ill.
Polly. But if his own misfortunes have made him insensible to mine, a father sure will be more compassionate. Dear, dear, sir, sink the material evidence and bring him off at his trial. Polly upon her knees begs it of you.
Air.—I am a poor shepherd undone
And stands arraigned for his life,
Then think of your Polly’s tears,
For, ah! poor Polly’s his wife.
Like the sailor he holds up his hand,
Distressed on the dashing wave;
To die a dry death at land
Is as bad as a watery grave.
And alas, poor Polly!
Alack, and well-a-day!
Before I was in love,
Oh! every month was May.
Lucy. If Peachum’s heart is hardened, sure you, sir, will have more compassion on a daughter. I know the evidence is in your power. How then can you be a tyrant to me?
[Kneeling.
Air.—Ianthe the lovely, etc.
Oh, think of your daughter and think I’m his wife!
What are cannons or bombs, or clashing of swords?
For death is more certain by witnesses’ words.
Then nail up their lips, that dread thunder allay,
And each month of my life will hereafter be May.
Lock. Macheath’s time is come, Lucy. We know our own affairs; therefore, let us have no more whimpering or whining.
Air.—A cobbler there was, etc.
When matters require it, must give up our gang;
And good reason why,
Or instead of the fry,
Even Peachum and I,
Like poor petty rascals might hang, hang,
Like poor petty rascals might hang!
Peach. Set your heart at rest, Polly. Your husband is to die to-day. Therefore, if you are not already provided, ’tis high time to look about for another. There’s comfort for you, you slut.
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