Lucy. O Villain, Villain! thou hast deceiv’d me—I could even inform against thee with Pleasure. Not a Prude wishes more heartily to have Facts against her intimate Acquaintance, than I now wish to have Facts against thee. I would have her Satisfaction, and they should all out.
AIR XXXV. Irish Trot.
Polly. I am bubbled.
Lucy. . . . I’m bubbled.
Polly. O how I am troubled!
Lucy. Bambouzled, and bit!
Polly. . . . My Distresses are doubled.
Lucy. When you come to the Tree, should the Hangman refuse,
These Fingers, with Pleasure, could fasten the Noose.
Polly. I’m bubbled, &c.
Macheath. Be pacified, my dear Lucy—This is all a Fetch of Polly’s, to make me desperate with you in case I get off. If I am hang’d, she would fain have the Credit of being thought my Widow—Really, Polly, this is no time for a Dispute of this sort; for whenever you are talking of Marriage, I am thinking of Hanging.