Air XV. Pray, Fair One, Be Kind
Macheath.
My Heart was so free,
It rov’d like the Bee,
’Till Polly my Passion requited;
I sipt each Flower,
I chang’d every Hour,
But here every Flower is united.
Polly. Were you sentenc’d to Transportation, sure, my Dear, you could not leave me behind you—could you?
Macheath. Is there any Power, any Force that could tear me from thee? You might sooner tear a Pension out of the Hands of a Courtier, a Fee from a Lawyer, a pretty Woman from a Looking-glass, or any Woman from Quadrille.—But to tear me from thee is impossible!