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.
AIR XXVII. ’Twas when the Sea was roaring, &c.
How cruel are the Traitors,
Who lye and swear in jest,
To cheat unguarded Creatures
Of Virtue, Fame, and Rest!
Whoever steals a Shilling,
Through Shame the Guilt conceals:
In Love the perjur’d Villain
With Boasts the Theft reveals.
Macheath. The very first Opportunity, my Dear, (have but Patience) you shall be my Wife in whatever manner you please.
Lucy. Insinuating Monster! And so you think I know nothing of the Affair of Miss Polly Peachum.—I could tear thy Eyes out!
Macheath. Sure, Lucy, you can’t be such a Fool as to be jealous of Polly!
Lucy. Are you not married to her, you Brute, you.