I can’t bear, Child, to see you in such low Spirits.—And I must persuade you to what I know will do you good. [Aside.] I shall now soon be even with the hypocrytical Strumpet.
[Exit.
Polly. All this Wheedling of Lucy cannot be for nothing.—At this time too! when I know she hates me!—The Dissembling of a Woman is always the Forerunner of Mischief.—By pouring Strong-Waters down my Throat, she thinks to pump some Secrets out of me,—I’ll be upon my Guard, and won’t taste a Drop of her Liquor, I’m resolv’d.
Re-enter Lucy, with Strong-Waters.
Lucy. Come, Miss Polly.
Polly. Indeed, Child, you have given yourself trouble to no purpose.—You must, my Dear, excuse me.
Lucy. Really, Miss Polly, you are as squeamishly affected about taking a Cup of Strong-Waters as a Lady before Company. I vow, Polly, I shall take it monstrously ill if you refuse me.—Brandy and Men (though Women love them ever so well) are always taken by us with some Reluctance—unless ’tis in private.
Polly. I protest, Madam, it goes against me.—What do I see! Macheath again in Custody!—Now every Glimm’ring of Happiness is lost.
[Drops the Glass of Liquor on the Ground.
Lucy. Since things are thus, I’m glad the Wench hath escap’d: for by this Event, ’tis plain, she was not happy enough to deserve to be poison’d.