_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. AIR XXXVIII. _Irish_ Howl. Polly. _No Power on Earth can e’er divide_ _The Knot that sacred Love hath ty’d_. _When Parents draw against our Mind_, _The True-Love’s Knot they faster bind_. _Oh_, _oh ray_, _oh Amborah_—_oh_, _oh_, &c. [Holding _Macheath_, _Peachum_ pulling her. SCENE III. The Same. Lucy, Macheath. _Macheath_. I am naturally compassionate, Wife; so that I could not use the Wench as she deserv’d; which made you at first suspect there was something in what she said. _Lucy_. Indeed, my Dear, I was strangely puzzled. _Macheath_. If that had been the Case, her Father would never have brought me into this Circumstance—No, _Lucy_,—I had rather die than be false to thee. _Lucy_. How happy am I, if you say this from your Heart! For I love thee so, that I could sooner bear to see thee hang’d than in the Arms of another. _Macheath_. But could’st thou bear to see me hang’d? _Lucy_. O _Macheath_, I can never live to see that Day. _Macheath_. You see, _Lucy_; in the Account of Love you are in my Debt, and you must now be convinc’d, that I rather choose to die than be another’s.—Make me, if possible, love thee more, and let me owe my Life to thee—If you refuse to assist me, _Peachum_ and your Father will immediately put me beyond all means of Escape. _Lucy_. My Father, I know, hath been drinking hard with the Prisoners: and I fancy he is now taking his Nap in his own Room—If I can procure the Keys, shall I go off with thee, my Dear? _Macheath_. If we are together, ’twill be impossible to lie conceal’d. As soon as the Search begins to be a little cool, I will send to thee—’Till then my Heart is thy Prisoner. _Lucy_. Come then, my dear Husband—owe thy Life to me—and though you love me not—be grateful,—but that _Polly_ runs in my Head strangely. _Macheath_. A moment of Time may make us unhappy for ever. AIR XXXIX. The Lass of _Patie’s_ Mill, &c. Lucy. _I like the Fox shall grieve_, _Whose Mate hath left her Side_, _Whom Hounds from Morn to Eve_, _Chase o’er the Country wide_. _Where can my Lover hide_? _Where cheat the wary Pack_? _If Love be not his Guide_, _He never will come back_!