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.