Lucy. Come, Miss Polly.
Polly. Indeed, Child, you have given yourself trouble to no purpose.—You must, my Dear, excuse me.
Lucy. Really, Miss Polly, you are as squeamishly affected about taking a Cup of Strong-Waters as a Lady before Company. I vow, Polly, I shall take it monstrously ill if you refuse me.—Brandy and Men (though Women love them ever so well) are always taken by us with some Reluctance—unless ’tis in private.
Polly. I protest, Madam, it goes against me.—What
do I see! Macheath again in Custody!—Now every Glimm’ring of Happiness is lost.
Drops the Glass of Liquor on the Ground.
Lucy. Since things are thus, I’m glad the Wench hath escap’d: for by this Event, ’tis plain, she was not happy enough to deserve to be poison’d.
Enter Lockit, Macheath, Peachum.
Lockit. Set your Heart to rest, Captain.—You have neither the Chance of Love or Money for another Escape,—for you are order’d to be call’d down upon your Trial immediately.
Peachum. Away, Hussies!—This is not a Time for a Man to be hamper’d with his Wives.—You see, the Gentleman is in Chains already.