Macheath. Must I then go?
Polly. And will not Absence change your Love?
Macheath. If you doubt it, let me stay—and be hang’d.
Polly. O how I fear! how I tremble!—Go—but when Safety will give you leave, you will be sure to see me again; for ’till then Polly is wretched.
[ AIR XVIII. O the Broom, &c.]
Macheath.
The Miser thus a Shilling sees,
Which he’s oblig’d to pay,