_Polly._ But I love him, Sir; how then could I have Thoughts of parting with him? _Peachum._ Parting with him! Why, this is the whole Scheme and Intention of all Marriage-Articles. The comfortable Estate of Widow-hood, is the only Hope that keeps up a Wife's Spirits. Where is the Woman who would scruple to be a Wife, if she had it in her Power to be a Widow, whenever she pleas'd? If you have any Views of this sort, _Polly_, I shall think the Match not so very unreasonable. _Polly._ How I dread to hear your Advice! Yet I must beg you to explain yourself. _Peachum._ Secure what he hath got, have him peach'd the next Sessions, and then at once you are made a rich Widow. _Polly._ What, murder the Man I love! The Blood runs cold at my Heart with the very thought of it. _Peachum._ Fie, _Polly_! What hath Murder to do in the Affair? Since the thing sooner or later must happen, I dare say, the Captain himself would like that we should get the Reward for his Death sooner than a Stranger. Why, _Polly_, the Captain knows, that as 'tis his Employment to rob, so 'tis ours to take Robbers; every Man in his Business. So that there is no Malice in the Case. _Mrs. Peachum._ Ay, Husband, now you have nick'd the Matter. To have him peach'd is the only thing could ever make me forgive her. AIR XII. Now ponder well, ye Parents dear. [Music] _Polly._ O ponder well! be not severe; So save a wretched Wife! For on the Rope that hangs my Dear Depends poor _Polly's_ Life. _Mrs. Peachum._ But your Duty to your Parents, Hussy, obliges you to hang him. What would many a Wife give for such an Opportunity! _Polly._ What is a Jointure, what is Widow-hood to me? I know my Heart. I cannot survive him. AIR XIII. Le printems rapelle aux armes. [Music] The Turtle thus with plaintive Crying, Her Lover dying, The Turtle thus with plaintive Crying, Laments her Dove. Down she drops quite spent with Sighing. Pair'd in Death, as pair'd in Love. Thus, Sir, it will happen to your poor _Polly_. _Mrs. Peachum._ What, is the Fool in Love in earnest then? I hate thee for being particular: Why, Wench, thou art a Shame to thy very Sex. _Polly._ But hear me, Mother. --If you ever lov'd-- _Mrs. Peachum._ Those cursed Play-Books she reads have been her Ruin. One Word more, Hussy, and I shall knock your Brains out, if you have any. _Peachum._ Keep out of the way, _Polly_, for fear of Mischief, and consider of what is proposed to you. _Mrs. Peachum._ Away, Hussy. Hang your Husband, and be dutiful. [Exit _Polly_. Re-enter _Polly_, and listens behind column. _Mrs. Peachum._ The Thing, Husband, must and shall be done. For the sake of Intelligence we must take other measures, and have him peached the next Session without her Consent. If she will not know her Duty, we know ours.