’Till To-morrow;
Come, sweet Lass,
Let’s take a chirping Glass.
Wine can clear
The Vapours of Despair
And make us light as Air;
Then drink, and banish Care.
I can’t bear, Child, to see you in such low Spirits.—And I must persuade you to what I know will do you good. Aside. I shall now soon be even with the hypocrytical Strumpet. Exit.
Polly. All this Wheedling of Lucy cannot be for nothing.—At this time too! when I know she hates me!—The Dissembling of a Woman is always the Forerunner of Mischief.—By pouring Strong-Waters down my Throat, she thinks to pump some Secrets out of me,—I’ll be upon my Guard, and won’t taste a Drop of her Liquor, I’m resolv’d.
Re-enter Lucy, with Strong-Waters.