Air XXXVII. Good-morrow, Gossip Joan
Lucy.
Why how now, Madam Flirt?
If you thus must chatter;
And are for flinging Dirt,
Let’s try who best can spatter;
Madam Flirt.
Polly.
Why how now, saucy Jade;
Sure the Wench is tipsy!
How can you see me made To him.
The Scoff of such a Gipsy?
Saucy Jade! To her.
Enter Peachum.
Peachum. Where’s my Wench? Ah Hussy! Hussy!—Come you home, you Slut; and when your Fellow is hang’d, hang yourself, to make your Family some Amends.
Polly. Dear, dear Father, do not tear me from him—I must speak; I have more to say to him—Oh! twist thy Fetters about me, that he may not haul me from thee!
Peachum. Sure all Women are alike! If ever they commit the Folly, they are sure to commit another by exposing themselves—Away—Not a Word more—You are my Prisoner, now, Hussy.