Air XVII. Gin Thou Wert Mine Awn Thing
Oh what Pain it is to part!
Can I leave thee, can I leave thee?
O what pain it is to part!
Can thy Polly ever leave thee?
But lest Death my Love should thwart,
And bring thee to the fatal Cart,
Thus I tear thee from my bleeding Heart!
Fly hence, and let me leave thee.
One Kiss and then—one Kiss—be gone—farewel.
Macheath. My Hand, my Heart, my Dear, is so riveted to thine, that I cannot unloose my Hold.
Polly. But my Papa may intercept thee, and then I should lose the very glimmering of Hope. A few Weeks, perhaps, may reconcile us all. Shall thy Polly hear from thee?
Macheath. Must I then go?
Polly. And will not Absence change your Love?
Macheath. If you doubt it, let me stay—and be hang’d.
Polly. O how I fear! how I tremble!—Go—but when Safety will give you leave, you will be sure to see me again; for ’till then Polly is wretched.