_Macheath_. In ev’ry Respect but the Form, and that, my Dear, may be said over us at any time.—Friends should not insist upon Ceremonies. From a Man of Honour, his Word is as good as his Bond. _Lucy_. ’Tis the Pleasure of all you fine Men to insult the Women you have ruin’d. AIR XXVII. ’Twas when the Sea was roaring, &c. _How cruel are the Traitors_, _Who lye and swear in jest_, _To cheat unguarded Creatures_ _Of Virtue_, _Fame_, _and Rest_! _Whoever steals a Shilling_, _Through Shame the Guilt conceals_: _In Love the perjur’d Villain_ _With Boasts the Theft reveals_. _Macheath_. The very first Opportunity, my Dear, (have but Patience) you shall be my Wife in whatever manner you please. _Lucy_. Insinuating Monster! And so you think I know nothing of the Affair of Miss _Polly Peachum_.—I could tear thy Eyes out! _Macheath_. Sure, _Lucy_, you can’t be such a Fool as to be jealous of _Polly_! _Lucy_. Are you not married to her, you Brute, you. _Macheath_. Married! Very good. The Wench gives it out only to vex thee, and to ruin me in thy good Opinion. ’Tis true, I go to the House; I chat with the Girl, I kiss her, I say a thousand things to her (as all Gentlemen do) that mean nothing, to divert myself; and now the silly Jade hath set it about that I am married to her, to let me know what she would be at. Indeed, my dear _Lucy_, these violent Passions may be of ill consequence to a Woman in your Condition. _Lucy_. Come, come, Captain, for all your Assurance, you know that Miss _Polly_ hath put it out of your Power to do me the Justice you promis’d me. _Macheath_. A jealous Woman believes every thing her Passion suggests. To convince you of my Sincerity, if we can find the Ordinary, I shall have no Scruples of making you my Wife; and I know the Consequence of having two at a time. _Lucy_. That you are only to be hang’d, and so get rid of them both. _Macheath_. I am ready, my dear _Lucy_, to give you Satisfaction—if you think there is any in Marriage.—What can a Man of Honour say more? _Lucy_. So then, it seems, you are not married to Miss _Polly_. _Macheath_. You know, _Lucy_, the Girl is prodigiously conceited. No Man can say a civil thing to her, but (like other fine Ladies) her Vanity makes her think he’s her own for ever and ever. AIR XXVIII. The Sun had loos’d his weary Teams, &c. _The first time at the Looking-glass_ _The Mother sets her Daughter_, _The Image strikes the smiling Lass_ _With Self-love ever after_, _Each time she looks_, _she_, _fonder grown_, _Thinks ev’ry Charm grows stronger_. _But alas_, _vain Maid_, _all Eyes but your own_ _Can see you are not younger_. When Women consider their own Beauties, they are all alike unreasonable in their Demands; for they expect their Lovers should like them as long as they like themselves.