Polly. _Were I sold on_ Indian _Soil_, _Soon as the burning Day was clos’d_, _I could mock the sultry Toil_ _When on my Charmer’s Breast repos’d_. Macheath. _And I would love you all the Day_, Polly. _Every Night would kiss and play_, Macheath. _If with me you’d fondly stray_ Polly. _Over the Hills and far away_. _Polly_. Yes, I would go with thee. But oh!—how shall I speak it? I must be torn from thee. We must part. _Macheath_. How! Part! _Polly_. We must, we must.—My Papa and Mama are set against thy Life. They now, even now are in Search after thee. They are preparing Evidence against thee. Thy Life depends upon a moment. 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. AIR XVIII. O the Broom, &c. Macheath. _The Miser thus a Shilling sees_, _Which he’s oblig’d to pay_, _With sighs resigns it by degrees_, _And fears ’tis gone for ay_. [Parting, and looking back at each other with fondness; he at one Door, she at the other.] Polly. _The Boy_, _thus_, _when his Sparrow’s flown_, _The Bird in Silence eyes_; _But soon as out of Sight ’tis gone_, _Whines_, _whimpers_, _sobs and cries_. ACT II. SCENE I. _A_ TAVERN _near_ Newgate. Jemmy Twitcher, Crook-finger’d Jack, Wat Dreary, Robin of Bagshot, Nimming Ned, Henry Paddington, Matt of the Mint, Ben Budge, _and the rest of the Gang_, _at the Table_, _with Wine_, _Brandy and Tobacco_. _Ben_. But pr’ythee, _Matt_, what is become of thy Brother _Tom_? I have not seen him since my Return from Transportation. _Matt_. Poor Brother _Tom_ had an Accident this time Twelve-month, and so clever a made fellow he was, that I could not save him from those fleaing Rascals the Surgeons; and now, poor Man, he is among the Otamys at _Surgeons Hall_.