_Peachum_. Brother, Brother—We are both in the Wrong—We shall be both Losers in the Dispute—for you know we have it in our Power to hang each other. You should not be so passionate. _Lockit_. Nor you so provoking. _Peachum_. ’Tis our mutual Interest; ’tis for the Interest of the World we should agree. If I said any thing, Brother, to the Prejudice of your Character, I ask pardon. _Lockit_. Brother _Peachum_—I can forgive as well as resent.—Give me your Hand. Suspicion does not become a Friend. _Peachum_. I only meant to give you Occasion to justify yourself: But I must now step home, for I expect the Gentleman about this Snuff-box, that _Filch_ nimm’d two Nights ago in the Park. I appointed him at this Hour. [_Exit_ Peachum. _Enter_ Lucy. _Lockit_. Whence come you, Hussy? _Lucy_. My Tears might answer that Question. _Lockit_. You have then been whimpering and fondling, like a Spaniel, over the Fellow that hath abus’d you. _Lucy_. One can’t help Love; one can’t cure it. ’Tis not in my Power to obey you, and hate him. _Lockit_. Learn to bear your Husband’s Death like a reasonable Woman. ’Tis not the fashion, now-a-days, so much as to affect Sorrow upon these Occasions. No Woman would ever marry, if she had not the Chance of Mortality for a Release. Act like a Woman of Spirit, Hussy, and thank your Father for what he is doing. AIR XXX. Of a noble Race was _Shenkin_. Lucy. _Is then his Fate decreed_, _Sir_? _Such a Man can I think of quitting_? _When first we met_, _so moves me yet_, _O see how my Heart is splitting_! _Lockit_. Look ye, _Lucy_—There is no saving him.—So, I think, you must ev’n do like other Widows—buy yourself Weeds, and be chearful. AIR XXXI. _You’ll think ere many Days ensue_ _This Sentence not severe_; _I hang your Husband_, _Child_, _’tis true_, _But with him hang your Care_. _Twang dang dillo dee_. Like a good Wife, go moan over your dying Husband. That, Child is your Duty—Consider, Girl, you can’t have the Man and the Money too—so make yourself as easy as you can, by getting all you can from him. [_Exit_ Lockit. _Enter_ Macheath. _Lucy_. Though the Ordinary was out of the way to-day, I hope, my Dear, you will, upon the first Opportunity, quiet my Scruples—Oh Sir! my Father’s hard heart is not to be soften’d, and I am in the utmost Despair. _Macheath_. But if I could raise a small Sum—Would not twenty Guineas, think you, move him?—Of all the Arguments in the way of Business, the Perquisite is the most prevailing—Your Father’s Perquisites for the Escape of Prisoners must amount to a considerable Sum in the Year. Money well tim’d, and properly apply’d, will do any thing. AIR XXXII. _London_ Ladies.