Lucy. Not the greatest Lady in the Land could have better in her Closet, for her own private drinking.—You seem mighty low in Spirits, my Dear.
Polly. I am sorry, Madam, my Health will not allow me to accept of your Offer.—I should not have left you in the rude manner I did when we met last, Madam, had not my Papa haul’d me away so unexpectedly—I was indeed somewhat provok’d, and perhaps might use some Expressions that were disrespectful.—But really, Madam, the Captain treated me with so much Contempt and Cruelty, that I deserv’d your Pity, rather than your Resentment.
Lucy. But since his Escape, no doubt all Matters are made up again.—Ah Polly! Polly! ’tis I am the unhappy Wife; and he loves you as if you were only his Mistress.
Polly. Sure, Madam, you cannot think me so happy as to be the object of your Jealousy.—A Man is always afraid of a Woman who loves him too well—so that I must expect to be neglected and avoided.
Lucy. Then our Cases, my dear Polly, are exactly alike. Both of us indeed have been too fond.
AIR XLVIII. O Bessy Bell.
Polly. A Curse attend that Woman’s Love,
Who always would be pleasing.
Lucy. The Pertness of the billing Dove,
Like Tickling, is but teazing.
Polly. What then in Love can Woman do:
Lucy. If we grow fond they shun us.