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.