Macheath. My Hand, my Heart, my Dear, is so riveted to thine, that I cannot unloose my Hold.
Polly. But my Papa may intercept thee, and then I should lose the very glimmering of Hope. A few Weeks, perhaps, may reconcile us all. Shall thy Polly hear from thee?
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,
With sighs resigns it by degrees,
And fears ’tis gone for ay.
[Parting, and looking back at each other with fondness; he at one Door, she at the other.]
Polly. The Boy, thus, when his Sparrow’s flown,
The Bird in Silence eyes;
But soon as out of Sight ’tis gone,
Whines, whimpers, sobs and cries.