Enter Lucy and Polly.
Macheath. My dear Lucy—My dear Polly—Whatsoever hath pass’d between us is now at an end—If you are fond of marrying again, the best Advice I can give you, is to Ship yourselves off for the West-Indies, where you’ll have a fair Chance of getting a Husband a-piece, or by good Luck, two or three, as you like best.
Polly. How can I support this Sight!
Lucy. There is nothing moves one so much as a great Man in Distress.
AIR LXVII. All you that must take a Leap, &c.
Lucy. Would I might be hang’d!
Polly. —And I would so too!
Lucy. To be hang’d with you.
Polly. —My Dear, with you.
Macheath. O leave me to Thought! I fear! I doubt!
I tremble! I droop!—See, my Courage is out.