Chapter 8

_Lucy_. Jealousy, Rage, Love and Fear are at once tearing me to pieces, How I am weather-beaten and shatter’d with Distresses!

AIR XLVI. One Evening, having lost my Way, &c.

_I’m like a Skiff on the Ocean tost_, _Now high_, _now low_, _with each Billow born_, _With her Rudder broke_, _and her Anchor lost_, _Deserted and all forlorn_. _While thus I lie rolling and tossing all Night_, _That Polly lies sporting on Seas of Delight_! _Revenge_, _Revenge_, _Revenge_, _Shall appease my restless Spirit_.

I have the Rats-bane ready.—I run no Risque; for I can lay her Death upon the Ginn, and so many die of that naturally that I shall never be call’d in question.—But say, I were to be hang’d.—I never could be hang’d for any thing that would give me greater Comfort, than the poisoning that Slut.

_Enter_ Filch.

_Filch_. Madam, here’s Miss _Polly_ come to wait upon you.

_Lucy_. Show her in.

_Enter_ Polly.

Dear Madam, your Servant.—I hope you will pardon my Passion, when I was so happy to see you last.—I was so over-run with the Spleen, that I was perfectly out of myself. And really when one hath the Spleen, every thing is to be excus’d by a Friend.

AIR XLVII. Now _Roger_, I’ll tell thee because thou ’rt my Son.

_When a Wife’s in her Pout_, (_As she’s sometimes_, _no doubt_;) _The good Husband as meek as a Lamb_, _Her Vapours to still_, _First grants her her Will_, _And the quieting Draught is a Dram_. _Poor Man_! _And the quieting Draught is a Dram_.

—I wish all our Quarrels might have so comfortable a Reconciliation.

_Polly_. I have no Excuse for my own Behaviour, Madam, but my Misfortunes.—And really, Madam, I suffer too upon your Account.

_Lucy_. But, Miss _Polly_—in the way of Friendship, will you give me leave to propose a Glass of Cordial to you?

_Polly_. Strong-Waters are apt to give me the Head-ache—I hope, Madam, you will excuse me.

_Lucy_. Not the greatest Lady in the Land could have better in her Closet, for her own private drinking.—You seem mighty low in Spirits, my Dear.

_Polly_. I am sorry, Madam, my Health will not allow me to accept of your Offer.—I should not have left you in the rude manner I did when we met last, Madam, had not my Papa haul’d me away so unexpectedly—I was indeed somewhat provok’d, and perhaps might use some Expressions that were disrespectful.—But really, Madam, the Captain treated me with so much Contempt and Cruelty, that I deserv’d your Pity, rather than your Resentment.

_Lucy_. But since his Escape, no doubt all Matters are made up again.—Ah _Polly_! _Polly_! ’tis I am the unhappy Wife; and he loves you as if you were only his Mistress.

_Polly_. Sure, Madam, you cannot think me so happy as to be the object of your Jealousy.—A Man is always afraid of a Woman who loves him too well—so that I must expect to be neglected and avoided.

_Lucy_. Then our Cases, my dear _Polly_, are exactly alike. Both of us indeed have been too fond.

AIR XLVIII. O _Bessy Bell_.

Polly. _A Curse attend that Woman’s Love_, _Who always would be pleasing_.

Lucy. _The Pertness of the billing Dove_, _Like Tickling_, _is but teazing_.

Polly. _What then in Love can Woman do_:

Lucy. _If we grow fond they shun us_.

Polly. _And when we fly them_, _they pursue_:

Lucy. _But leave us when they’ve won us_.

_Lucy_. Love is so very whimsical in both Sexes, that it is impossible to be lasting.—But my Heart is particular, and contradicts my own Observation.

_Polly_. But really, Mistress _Lucy_, by his last Behaviour, I think I ought to envy you.—When I was forc’d from him, he did not shew the least Tenderness.—But perhaps, he hath a Heart not capable of it.

AIR XLIX. Would Fate to me _Belinda_ give.

_Among the Men_, _Coquettes we find_, _Who court by turns all Woman-kind_; _And we grant all their Hearts desir’d_, _When they are flatter’d_, _and admir’d_.

The Coquettes of both Sexes are Self-lovers, and that is a Love no other whatever can dispossess. I hear, my dear _Lucy_, our Husband is one of those.

_Lucy_. Away with these melancholy Reflections,—indeed, my dear _Polly_, we are both of us a Cup too low—Let me prevail upon you to accept of my Offer.

AIR L. Come, sweet Lass.

_Come_, _sweet Lass_, _Let’s banish Sorrow_ _’Till To-morrow_; _Come_, _sweet Lass_, _Let’s take a chirping Glass_. _Wine can clear_ _The Vapours of Despair_ _And make us light as Air_; _Then drink_, _and banish Care_.

I can’t bear, Child, to see you in such low Spirits.—And I must persuade you to what I know will do you good. [_Aside_.] I shall now soon be even with the hypocrytical Strumpet.

[_Exit_.

_Polly_. All this Wheedling of _Lucy_ cannot be for nothing.—At this time too! when I know she hates me!—The Dissembling of a Woman is always the Forerunner of Mischief.—By pouring Strong-Waters down my Throat, she thinks to pump some Secrets out of me,—I’ll be upon my Guard, and won’t taste a Drop of her Liquor, I’m resolv’d.

_Re-enter_ Lucy, _with Strong-Waters_.

_Lucy_. Come, Miss _Polly_.

_Polly_. Indeed, Child, you have given yourself trouble to no purpose.—You must, my Dear, excuse me.

_Lucy_. Really, Miss _Polly_, you are as squeamishly affected about taking a Cup of Strong-Waters as a Lady before Company. I vow, _Polly_, I shall take it monstrously ill if you refuse me.—Brandy and Men (though Women love them ever so well) are always taken by us with some Reluctance—unless ’tis in private.

_Polly_. I protest, Madam, it goes against me.—What do I see! _Macheath_ again in Custody!—Now every Glimm’ring of Happiness is lost.

[_Drops the Glass of Liquor on the Ground_.

_Lucy_. Since things are thus, I’m glad the Wench hath escap’d: for by this Event, ’tis plain, she was not happy enough to deserve to be poison’d.

_Enter_ Lockit, Macheath, Peachum.

_Lockit_. Set your Heart to rest, Captain.—You have neither the Chance of Love or Money for another Escape,—for you are order’d to be call’d down upon your Trial immediately.

_Peachum_. Away, Hussies!—This is not a Time for a Man to be hamper’d with his Wives.—You see, the Gentleman is in Chains already.

_Lucy_. O Husband, Husband, my Heart long’d to see thee; but to see thee thus distracts me?

_Polly_. Will not my dear Husband look upon his _Polly_? Why hadst thou not flown to me for Protection? with me thou hadst been safe.

AIR LI. The last time I went o’er the Moor.

Polly. _Hither_, _dear Husband_, _turn your Eyes_.

Lucy. _Bestow one Glance to cheer me_.

Polly. _Think with that Look_, _thy_ Polly _dies_.

Lucy. _O shun me not_—_but hear me_.

Polly. _’Tis Polly sues_.

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_?

_Macheath_. What would you have me say, Ladies?—You see this affair will soon be at an end, without my disobliging either of you.

_Peachum_. But the settling this Point, Captain, might prevent a Law-Suit between your two Widows.

AIR LII. _Tom Tinker’s_ my true Love.

Macheath. _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 LIII. I am a poor Shepherd undone.

_When my Heroe in Court appears_, _And stands arraign’d for his Life_; _Then think of poor_ Polly’s _Tears_; _For Ah_! _poor_ Polly’s _his Wife_. _Like the Sailor he holds up his hand_, _Distrest 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 harden’d; 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 LIV. _Ianthe_ the lovely, &c.

_When he holds up his Hand arraign’d for his Life_, _O think of your Daughter_, _and think I’m his Wife_! _What are Canons_, _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_.

_Lockit_. _Macheath’s_ Time is come, _Lucy_.—We know our own Affairs, therefore let us have no more Whimpering or Whining.

AIR LV. A Cobler there was, &c.

_Ourselves_, _like the Great_, _to secure a Retreat_, _When Matters require it_, _must give up our Gang_: _And good reason why_, _Or_, _instead of the Fry_, _Ev’n_ Peachum _and I_. _Like poor petty Rascals_, _might hang_, _hang_; _Like poor petty Rascals_, _might hang_.

_Peachum_. 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.

_Lockit_. We are ready, Sir, to conduct you to the _Old Baily_.

AIR LVI. Bonny _Dundee_.

Macheath. _The Charge is prepar’d_; _the Lawyers are met_, _The Judges all rang’d_ (_a terrible Show_!) _I go_, _undismay’d_.—_For Death is a Debt_, _A Debt on Demand_.—_So take what I owe_. _Then farewell_, _my Love_—_Dear Charmers_, _adieu_. _Contented I die_—_’Tis the better for you_. _Here ends all Disputes the rest of our Lives_, _For this way at once I please all my Wives_.

Now, Gentlemen, I am ready to attend you.

[_Exeunt_ Macheath, Lockit, _and_ Peachum.

_Enter_ Filch.

_Polly_. Follow them, _Filch_, to the Court. And when the Trial is over, bring me a particular Account of his Behaviour, and of every thing that happen’d—You’ll find me here with Miss _Lucy_. [_Exit_ Filch.] But why is all this Musick?

_Lucy_. The Prisoners, whose Trials are put off ’till next Session, are diverting themselves.

_Polly_. Sure there is nothing so charming as Music! I’m fond of it to Distraction!—But alas!—now, all Mirth seems an Insult upon my Affliction.—Let us retire, my dear _Lucy_, and indulge our Sorrows.—The noisy Crew, you see, are coming upon us.

[_Exeunt_.

_A Dance of Prisoners in Chains_, &c.