Chapter 9

Macheath, _in a melancholy Posture_.

AIR LVII. Happy Groves.

_O cruel_, _cruel_, _cruel Case_! _Must I suffer this Disgrace_?

AIR LVIII. Of all the Girls that are so smart.

_Of all the Friends in time of Grief_, _When threatning Death looks grimmer_, _Not one so sure can bring Relief_, _As this best Friend_, _a Brimmer_.

[Drinks.

AIR LIX. _Britons_ strike home.

_Since I must swing_,—_I scorn_, _I scorn to wince or whine_.

[Rises.

AIR LX. Chevy Chase.

_But now again my Spirits sink_; _I’ll raise them high with Wine_.

[Drinks a Glass of Wine.

AIR LXI. To old Sir _Simon_ the King.

_But Valour the stronger grows_, _The stronger Liquor we’er drinking_; _And how can we feel our Woes_, _When we’ve lost the Trouble of Thinking_?

[Drinks.

AIR LXII. Joy to Great _Cæsar_.

_If thus_—_A Man can die_ _Much bolder with Brandy_.

[Pours out a Bumper of Brandy.

AIR LXIII. There was an old Woman.

_So I drink off this Bumper_.—_And now I can stand the Test_, _And my Comrades shall see_, _that I die as brave as the Best_.

[Drinks.

AIR LXIV. Did you ever hear of a gallant Sailor.

_But can I leave my pretty Hussies_, _Without one Tear_, _or tender Sigh_?

AIR LXV. Why are mine Eyes still flowing.

_Their Eyes_, _their Lips_, _their Busses_ _Recall my Love_,—_Ah must I die_!

AIR LXVI. Green Sleeves.

_Since Laws were made for ev’ry Degree_, _To curb Vice in others_, _as well as me_, _I wonder we han’t better Company_, _Upon_ Tyburn_ Tree_! _But Gold from Law can take out the Sting_; _And if rich Men like us were to swing_, _’Twou’d thin the Land_, _such Numbers to string_ _Upon_ Tyburn_ Tree_!

_Jailor_. Some Friends of yours, Captain, desire to be admitted—I leave you together.

_Enter_ Ben Budge, Matt of the Mint.

_Macheath_. For my having broke Prison, you see, Gentlemen, I am order’d immediate Execution.—The Sheriff’s Officers, I believe, are now at the Door.—That _Jemmy Twitcher_ should peach me, I own surpris’d me!—’Tis a plain Proof that the World is all alike, and that even our Gang can no more trust one another than other People. Therefore, I beg you, Gentlemen, look well to yourselves, for in all probability you may live some Months longer.

_Matt_. We are heartily sorry, Captain, for your Misfortune.—But ’tis what we must all come to.

_Macheath_. _Peachum_ and _Lockit_, you know, are infamous Scoundrels. Their Lives are as much in your Power, as yours are in theirs.—Remember your dying Friend!—’Tis my last Request.—Bring those Villains to the Gallows before you, and I am satisfied.

_Matt_. We’ll do’t.

_Jailor_. Miss _Polly_ and Miss _Lucy_ intreat a Word with you.

_Macheath_. Gentlemen, adieu.

[_Exeunt_ Ben Budge _and_ Matt.

Enter _Lucy_ and _Polly_.

_Macheath_. My dear _Lucy_—My dear _Polly_—Whatsoever hath pass’d between us is now at an end—If you are fond of marrying again, the best Advice I can give you, is to Ship yourselves off for the _West-Indies_, where you’ll have a fair Chance of getting a Husband a-piece, or by good Luck, two or three, as you like best.

_Polly_. How can I support this Sight!

_Lucy_. There is nothing moves one so much as a great Man in Distress.

AIR LXVII. All you that must take a Leap, &c.

Lucy. _Would I might be hang’d_!

Polly. —_And I would so too_!

Lucy. _To be hang’d with you_.

Polly. —_My Dear_, _with you_.

Macheath. _O leave me to Thought_! _I fear_! _I doubt_! _I tremble_! _I droop_!—_See_, _my Courage is out_.

[Turns up the empty Bottle.

Polly. _No Token of Love_?

Macheath. —_See_, _my Courage is out_.

[Turns up the empty Pot.

Lucy. _No Token of_ Love?

Polly. —_Adieu_.

Lucy. —_Farewell_.

Macheath. _But hark_! _I hear the Toll of the Bell_.

Chorus. _Tol de rol lol_, &c.

_Jailor_. Four Women more, Captain, with a Child apiece! See, here they come.

[_Enter Women and Children_.

_Macheath_. What—four Wives more!—This is too much—Here—tell the Sheriff’s Officers I am ready.

[_Exit_ Macheath _guarded_.

_To them_, _Enter_ Player _and_ Beggar.

_Player_. But, honest Friend, I hope you don’t intend that _Macheath_ shall be really executed.

_Beggar_. Most certainly, Sir.—To make the Piece perfect, I was for doing strict poetical Justice.—_Macheath_ is to be hang’d; and for the other Personages of the Drama, the Audience must have suppos’d they were all either hang’d or transported.

_Player_. Why then, Friend, this is a downright deep Tragedy. The Catastrophe is manifestly wrong, for an Opera must end happily.

_Beggar_. Your Objection, Sir, is very just, and is easily remov’d. For you must allow, that in this kind of Drama, ’tis no matter how absurdly things are brought about—So—you Rabble there—run and cry, A Reprieve!—let the Prisoner be brought back to his Wives in Triumph.

_Player_. All this we must do, to comply with the Taste of the Town.

_Beggar_. Through the whole Piece you may observe such a Similitude of Manners in high and low Life, that it is difficult to determine whether (in the fashionable Vices) the fine Gentlemen imitate the Gentlemen of the Road, or the Gentlemen of the Road the fine Gentlemen.—Had the Play remained, as I at first intended, it would have carried a most excellent Moral. ’Twould have shewn that the lower Sort of People have their Vices in a degree as well as the Rich: And that they are punish’d for them.

_To them_, Macheath _with_ Rabble, &c.

_Macheath_. So, it seems, I am not left to my Choice, but must have a Wife at last.—Look ye, my Dears, we will have no Controversy now. Let us give this Day to Mirth, and I am sure she who thinks herself my Wife will testify her Joy by a Dance.

_All_. Come, a Dance—a Dance.

_Macheath_. Ladies, I hope you will give me leave to present a Partner to each of you. And (if I may without Offence) for this time, I take _Polly_ for mine.—And for Life, you Slut,—for we were really marry’d.—As for the rest.—But at present keep your own Secret.

[_To_ Polly.

A DANCE.

AIR LXVIII. Lumps of Pudding, &c.

_Thus I stand like the_ Turk, _with his Doxies around_; _From all Sides their Glances his Passion confound_; _For Black_, _Brown_, _and Fair_, _his Inconstancy burns_, _And the different Beauties subdue him by turns_: _Each calls forth her Charms to provoke his Desires_: _Though willing to all_, _with but one he retires_. _But think of this Maxim_, _and put off your Sorrow_, _The Wretch of To-day_, _may be happy To-morrow_.

Chorus. _But think of this Maxim_, &c.