AIR LXIV. Did you ever hear of a gallant Sailor. _But can I leave my pretty Hussies_, _Without one Tear_, _or tender Sigh_? AIR LXV. Why are mine Eyes still flowing. _Their Eyes_, _their Lips_, _their Busses_ _Recall my Love_,—_Ah must I die_! AIR LXVI. Green Sleeves. _Since Laws were made for ev’ry Degree_, _To curb Vice in others_, _as well as me_, _I wonder we han’t better Company_, _Upon_ Tyburn_ Tree_! _But Gold from Law can take out the Sting_; _And if rich Men like us were to swing_, _’Twou’d thin the Land_, _such Numbers to string_ _Upon_ Tyburn_ Tree_! _Jailor_. Some Friends of yours, Captain, desire to be admitted—I leave you together. _Enter_ Ben Budge, Matt of the Mint. _Macheath_. For my having broke Prison, you see, Gentlemen, I am order’d immediate Execution.—The Sheriff’s Officers, I believe, are now at the Door.—That _Jemmy Twitcher_ should peach me, I own surpris’d me!—’Tis a plain Proof that the World is all alike, and that even our Gang can no more trust one another than other People. Therefore, I beg you, Gentlemen, look well to yourselves, for in all probability you may live some Months longer. _Matt_. We are heartily sorry, Captain, for your Misfortune.—But ’tis what we must all come to. _Macheath_. _Peachum_ and _Lockit_, you know, are infamous Scoundrels. Their Lives are as much in your Power, as yours are in theirs.—Remember your dying Friend!—’Tis my last Request.—Bring those Villains to the Gallows before you, and I am satisfied. _Matt_. We’ll do’t. _Jailor_. Miss _Polly_ and Miss _Lucy_ intreat a Word with you. _Macheath_. Gentlemen, adieu. [_Exeunt_ Ben Budge _and_ Matt. Enter _Lucy_ and _Polly_. _Macheath_. My dear _Lucy_—My dear _Polly_—Whatsoever hath pass’d between us is now at an end—If you are fond of marrying again, the best Advice I can give you, is to Ship yourselves off for the _West-Indies_, where you’ll have a fair Chance of getting a Husband a-piece, or by good Luck, two or three, as you like best. _Polly_. How can I support this Sight! _Lucy_. There is nothing moves one so much as a great Man in Distress. AIR LXVII. All you that must take a Leap, &c. Lucy. _Would I might be hang’d_! Polly. —_And I would so too_! Lucy. _To be hang’d with you_. Polly. —_My Dear_, _with you_. Macheath. _O leave me to Thought_! _I fear_! _I doubt_! _I tremble_! _I droop_!—_See_, _my Courage is out_. [Turns up the empty Bottle. Polly. _No Token of Love_? Macheath. —_See_, _my Courage is out_. [Turns up the empty Pot. Lucy. _No Token of_ Love? Polly. —_Adieu_. Lucy. —_Farewell_.