In her Trap in the Morning taken,
With Pleasure her Heart goes pit-a-pat,
In Revenge for her Loss of Bacon.
Then she throws him
To the Dog or Cat,
To be worried, crush’d and shaken.
Macheath. Have you no Bowels, no Tenderness, my dear Lucy, to see a Husband in these Circumstances?
Lucy. A Husband!
Macheath. In ev’ry Respect but the Form, and that, my Dear, may be said over us at any time.—Friends should not insist upon Ceremonies. From a Man of Honour, his Word is as good as his Bond.
Lucy. ’Tis the Pleasure of all you fine Men to insult the Women you have ruin’d.