Polly. I did not marry him (as ’tis the Fashion) coolly and deliberately for Honour or Money. But, I love him.
Mrs. Peachum. Love him! worse and worse! I thought the Girl had been better bred. Oh Husband, Husband! her Folly makes me mad! my Head swims! I’m distracted! I can’t support myself—Oh! Faints.
Peachum. See, Wench, to what a Condition you have reduc’d your poor Mother! a Glass of Cordial, this instant. How the poor Woman takes it to heart!
Polly goes out, and returns with it.
Ah, Hussy, now this is the only Comfort your Mother has left!
Polly. Give her another Glass, Sir! my Mama drinks double the Quantity whenever she is out of Order. This, you see, fetches her.
Mrs. Peachum. The Girl shews such a Readiness, and so much Concern, that I could almost find in my Heart to forgive her.
[ AIR IX. O Jenny, O Jenny, where hast thou been.]
