Our Fire their Fire surpasses,
And turns all our Lead to Gold.
The Gang, rang’d in the Front of the Stage, load their Pistols, and stick them under their Girdles; then go off singing the first Part in Chorus.
Macheath. What a Fool is a fond Wench! Polly is most confoundedly bit.—I love the Sex. And a Man who loves Money, might as well be contented with one Guinea, as I with one Woman. The Town perhaps have been as much obliged to me, for recruiting it with free-hearted Ladies, as to any Recruiting Officer in the Army. If it were not for us, and the other Gentlemen of the Sword, Drury-Lane would be uninhabited.
[ AIR XXI. Would you have a young Virgin, &c.]
If the Heart of a Man is deprest with Cares,
The Mist is dispell’d when a Woman appears;
Like the Notes of a Fiddle, she sweetly, sweetly