Polly. Where is my dear Husband?—Was a Rope ever intended for this Neck!—O let me throw my Arms about it, and throttle thee with Love!—Why dost thou turn away from me?—’Tis thy Polly—’Tis thy Wife.
Macheath. Was ever such an unfortunate Rascal as I am!
Lucy. Was there ever such another Villain!
Polly. O Macheath! was it for this we parted? Taken! Imprisoned! Try’d! Hang’d—cruel Reflection! I’ll stay with thee ’till Death—no Force shall tear thy dear Wife from thee now.—What means my Love?—Not one kind Word! not one kind Look! think what thy Polly suffers to see thee in this Condition.
AIR XXXIII. All in the Downs, &c.
Thus when the Swallow seeking Prey,
Within the Sash is closely pent,
His Consort, with bemoaning Lay,
Without sits pining for th’ Event.
Her chatt’ring Lovers all around her skim;
She heeds them not (poor Bird!) her Soul’s with him.
Macheath. [Aside.] I must disown her. [Aloud.] The Wench is distracted.
Lucy. Am I then bilk’d of my Virtue? Can I have no Reparation? Sure Men were born to lie, and Women to believe them! O Villain! Villain!
Polly. Am I not thy Wife?—Thy Neglect of me, thy Aversion to me too severely proves it.—Look on me.—Tell me, am I not thy Wife?
Lucy. Perfidious Wretch!