Air XXXIII. All in the Downs, &c.
Thus when the Swallow seeking Prey,
Within the Sash is closely pent,
His Consort, with bemoaning Lay,
Without sits pining for th’ Event.
Her chatt’ring Lovers all around her skim;
She heeds them not (poor Bird!) her Soul’s with him.
Macheath. Aside. I must disown her. Aloud. The Wench is distracted.
Lucy. Am I then bilk’d of my Virtue? Can I have no Reparation? Sure Men were born to lie, and Women to believe them! O Villain! Villain!
Polly. Am I not thy Wife?—Thy Neglect of me, thy Aversion to me too severely proves it.—Look on me.—Tell me, am I not thy Wife?
Lucy. Perfidious Wretch!
Polly. Barbarous Husband!
Lucy. Hadst thou been hang’d five Months ago, I had been happy.
Polly. And I too—If you had been kind to me ’till Death, it would not have vexed me—And that’s no very unreasonable Request, (though from a Wife) to a Man who hath not above seven or eight Days to live.
Lucy. Art thou then married to another? Hast thou two Wives, Monster?
Macheath. If Women’s Tongues can cease for an Answer—hear me.
Lucy. I won’t.—Flesh and Blood can’t bear my Usage.
Polly. Shall I not claim my own? Justice bids me speak.