Since Laws were made for ev’ry Degree,
To curb Vice in others, as well as me,
I wonder we han’t better Company,
Upon Tyburn Tree!
But Gold from Law can take out the Sting;
And if rich Men like us were to swing,
’Twou’d thin the Land, such Numbers to string
Upon Tyburn Tree!
Jailor. Some Friends of yours, Captain, desire to be admitted—I leave you together.
Enter Ben Budge, Matt of the Mint.
Macheath. For my having broke Prison, you see, Gentlemen, I am order’d immediate Execution.—The Sheriff’s Officers, I believe, are now at the Door.—That Jemmy Twitcher should peach me, I own surpris’d me!—’Tis a plain Proof that the World is all alike, and that even our Gang can no more trust one another than other People. Therefore, I beg you, Gentlemen, look well to yourselves, for in all probability you may live some Months longer.
Matt. We are heartily sorry, Captain, for your Misfortune.—But ’tis what we must all come to.
Macheath. Peachum and Lockit, you know, are infamous Scoundrels. Their Lives are as much in your Power, as yours are in theirs.—Remember your dying Friend!—’Tis my last Request.—Bring those Villains to the Gallows before you, and I am satisfied.
Matt. We’ll do’t.
Jailor. Miss Polly and Miss Lucy intreat a Word with you.
Macheath. Gentlemen, adieu.
[Exeunt Ben Budge and Matt.