_Polly_. Now I’m a Wretch, indeed.—Methinks I see him already in the Cart, sweeter and more lovely than the Nosegay in his Hand!—I hear the Crowd extolling his Resolution and Intrepidity!—What Vollies of Sighs are sent from the Windows of _Holborn_, that so comely a Youth should be brought to Disgrace!—I see him at the Tree! The whole Circle are in Tears!—even Butchers weep!—_Jack Ketch_ himself hesitates to perform his Duty, and would be glad to lose his Fee, by a Reprieve. What then will become of _Polly_!—As yet I may inform him of their Design, and aid him in his Escape.—It shall be so—But then he flies, absents himself, and I bar myself from his dear dear Conversation! That too will distract me.—If he keep out of the way, my Papa and Mama may in time relent, and we may be happy.—If he stays, he is hang’d, and then he is lost for ever!—He intended to lie conceal’d in my Room, ’till the Dusk of the Evening: If they are abroad I’ll this Instant let him out, lest some Accident should prevent him. [_Exit_, _and returns with_ Macheath. Macheath. AIR XIV. Pretty Parrot, say— Macheath. _Pretty_ Polly, _say_, _When I was away_, _Did your fancy never stray_ _To some newer Lover_? Polly. _Without Disguise_, _Heaving Sighs_, _Doting Eyes_, _My constant Heart discover_. _ Fondly let me loll_! Macheath. _O pretty_, _pretty Poll_. _Polly_. And are _you_ as fond as ever, my Dear? _Macheath_. Suspect my Honour, my Courage, suspect any thing but my Love.—May my Pistols miss Fire, and my Mare slip her Shoulder while I am pursu’d, if I ever forsake thee! _Polly_. Nay, my Dear, I have no Reason to doubt you, for I find in the Romance you lent me, none of the great Heroes were ever false in Love. 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! AIR XVI. Over the Hills and far away. _Were I laid on_ Greenland’s _Coast_, _And in my Arms embrac’d my Lass_; _Warm amidst eternal Frost_, _Too soon the Half Year’s Night would pass_.