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.
SCENE V. The Condemn’d Hold.
Macheath, in a melancholy Posture.