little cool, I will send to thee—’Till then my Heart is thy Prisoner.
Lucy. Come then, my dear Husband—owe thy Life to me—and though you love me not—be grateful,—but that Polly runs in my Head strangely.
Macheath. A moment of Time may make us unhappy for ever.
[ AIR XXXIX. The Lass of Patie’s Mill, &c.]
Lucy.
I like the Fox shall grieve,
Whose Mate hath left her Side,
Whom Hounds from Morn to Eve,