him. What would many a Wife give for such an Opportunity!
  POLLY. What is a Jointure, what is Widow-hood to me? I know my heart. I 
cannot survive him.
 
                AIR XIII.--Le printemps rappelle aux armes.
 
                  The Turtle thus with plaintive Crying,
                      Her Lover dying,
                  The Turtle thus with plaintive Crying,
                      Laments her Dove.
                  Down she drops quite spent with Sighing
                  Pair'd in Death, as pair'd in Love.
 
Thus, Sir, it will happen to your poor Polly.
  MRS. PEACHUM. What, is the Fool in Love in earnest then? I hate thee for 
being particular: Why Wench, thou art a Shame to they very Sex.
  POLLY. But hear me, Mother.----If you ever lov'd-----
  MRS. PEACHUM. Those cursed Play-Books she reads have been her Ruin. 
One Word more, Hussy, and I shall knock your Brains out, if you have any. 
  PEACHUM. Keep out of the way, Polly, for fear of Mischief, and consider 
what is propos'd to you.
  MRS. PEACHUM. Away, Hussy. Hang your Husband, and be dutiful.
 
 
                                 Scene 11.
 
                           MRS. PEACHUM, PEACHUM.
                             [Polly listning.]
  MRS. PEACHUM. The Thing, Husband, must and shall be done. For the sake of 
Intelligence we must take other Measures, and have him peach'd the next 
Session without her Consent. If she will not know her Duty, we know ours.
  PEACHUM. But really, my Dear, it grieves one's Heart to take off a great 
Man. When I consider his Personal Bravery, his fine Strategem, how much 
we have already got by him, and how much more we may get, methinks I can't 
find it in my Heart to have a hand in his Death. I wish you could have made 
Polly undertake it. 
  MRS. PEACHUM. But in a Case of Necessity----our own Lives are in danger.
  PEACHUM. Then, indeed, we must comply with the Customs of the World, and 
make Gratitude give way to Interest.----He shall be taken off.
  MRS. PEACHUM. I'll undertake to manage Polly.
  PEACHUM. And I'll prepare Matters for the Old Baily.
 
 
                                 Scene 12.
 
                                   POLLY.
  Now I'm a Wretch, indeed.----Methinks I see him already in the Cart, 
sweeter and more lovely than the Nosegay in his Hand!----I hear the Crowd 
extolling his Resolution and Intrepidity!----What Vollies of Sighs are sent 
from the Windows of Holborn, that so comely a Youth should be brought to 
Disgrace!--I see him at the Tree! The whole Circle are in Tears!----even 
Butchers weep!----Jack Ketch himself hesitates to perform his Duty, and 
would be glad to lose his Fee, by a Reprieve. What then will become of 
Polly!----As yet I may inform him of their Design, and aid him in his 
Escape.----It shall be so----But then he flies, absents himself, and I bar 
myself from his dear Conversation! That too will distract me.----If he keep 
out of the way, my Papa and Mama may in time relent, and we may be happy.--
--If he stays, he is hang'd, and then he is lost for ever!----He intended 
to lie conceal'd in my Room, 'till the Dusk of the Evening: If they are 
abroad, I'll this Instant let him out, lest some Accident should prevent 
him.                                                      [Exit, and returns.
 
 
                                 Scene 13.
 
                              POLLY, MACHEATH
 
                      Air XIV.--Pretty Parrot, say----
 
                                 MACHEATH.
                           Pretty Polly, say,
                           When I was away,
                         Did your Fancy never stray
                           To some newer Lover?
 
                                   POLLY.
                           Without Disguise,
                           Heaving Sighs,
                           Doting Eyes,
                       My constant Heart discover,
                         Fondly let me loll!
 
                                 MACHEATH.
                           O pretty, pretty Poll.
 
  POLLY. And are you as fond as ever, my Dear?
  MACHEATH. Suspect my Honour, my Courage, suspect any thing but my Love.--
--May my Pistols miss Fire, and my Mare slip her Shoulder while I am 
pursu'd, if I ever forsake thee!
  POLLY. Nay, my Dear, I have no Reason to doubt you, for I find in the 
Romance you lent me, none of the great Heroes were ever false in Love.
 
                    Air XV.--Pray, Fair one, be kind----
 
                                 MACHEATH.
                     My Heart was so free,
                     It rov'd like the Bee,
                   'Till Polly my Passion requited;
                     I sipt each Flower,
                     I chang'd ev'ry Hour,