The Beggar’s Opera

You would not be so mad to have the Wench marry him! Gamesters and Highwaymen are generally very good to their Whores, but they are very Devils to their Wives.

I would indulge the Girl as far as prudently we can. In any thing, but Marriage! After that, my Dear, how shall we be safe? Are we not then in her Husband’s Power? For a Husband hath the absolute Power over all a Wife’s Secrets but her own. If the Girl had the Discretion of a Court Lady, who can have a dozen young Fellows at her Ear without complying with one, I should not matter it; but Polly is Tinder, and a Spark will at once set her on a Flame. Married! If the Wench does not know her own Profit, sure she knows her own Pleasure better than to make herself a Property! My Daughter to me should be, like a Court Lady to a Minister of State, a Key to the whole Gang. Married! If the Affair is not already done, I’ll terrify her from it.

Why must our Polly, forsooth, differ from her Sex, and love only her Husband? And why must Polly’s Marriage, contrary to all Observation, make her the less followed by other Men? All Men are Thieves in Love, and like a Woman the better for being another’s Property.

POLLY. I did not marry him (as ’tis the Fashion) cooly and deliberately for Honour or Money. But, I love him.
MRS PEACHUM. Love him! worse and worse! I thought the Girl had been better bred. Oh Husband, Husband! her Folly makes me mad! my Head swims! I’m distracted! I can’t support myself—Oh!
[Faints.]

Money, Wife, is the true Fuller’s Earth for Reputations, there is not a Spot or a Stain but what it can take out. A rich Rogue now-a-days is fit Company for any Gentleman; and the World, my Dear, hath not such a Contempt for Roguery as you imagine.

POLLY. What, murder the Man I love! The Blood runs cold at my Heart with the very Thought of it.
PEACHUM. Fye, 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.

[Parting, and looking back at each other with fondness; he at one Door, she at the other.]

MACHEATH. The Miser thus a Shilling sees,
Which he’s oblig’d to pay,
With Sighs resigns it by degrees,
And fears ’tis gone for aye.

POLLY. The Boy, thus, when his Sparrow’s flown,
The Bird in Silence eyes;
But soon as out of Sight ’tis gone,
Whines, whimpers, sobs and cries.

What a Fool is a fond Wench! Polly is most confoundedly bit.—I love the Sex. And a Man who loves Money, might as well be contented with one Guinea, as I with one Woman. The Town perhaps hath been as much oblig’d to me, for recruiting it with free-hearted Ladies, as to any Recruiting Officer in the Army. If it were not for us and the other Gentlemen of the Sword, Drury Lane would be uninhabited.

Before the Barn-door crowing,
The Cock by Hens attended,
His Eyes around him throwing,
Stands for a while suspended.
Then One he singles from the Crew,
And cheers the happy Hen;
With how do you do, and how do you do,
And how do you do again.

Your Case, Mr Macheath, is not particular. The greatest Heroes have been ruin’d by Women. But, to do them justice, I must own they are a pretty sort of Creatures, if we could trust them.

The Fees here are so many, and so exorbitant, that few Fortunes can bear the Expence of getting off handsomly, or of dying like a Gentleman.

But I promis’d the Wench Marriage.—What signifies a Promise to a Woman? Does not Man in Marriage itself promise a hundred things that he never means to perform? Do all we can, Women will believe us; for they look upon a Promise as an Excuse for following their own Inclinations.

How cruel are the Traytors,
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.

Where is my dear Husband?—Was a Rope ever intended for this Neck!—O let me throw my Arms about it, and throttle thee with Love!—Why dost thou turn away from me?—’Tis thy Polly—’Tis thy Wife.

Be pacified, my dear Lucy—This is all a Fetch of Polly’s, to make me desperate with you in case I get off. If I am hang’d, she would fain have the Credit of being thought my Widow—Really, Polly, this is no time for a Dispute of this sort; for whenever you are talking of Marriage, I am thinking of Hanging.

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 dye 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.

When young at the Bar you first taught me to score,
And bid me be free of my Lips, and no more;
I was kiss’d by the Parson, the Squire, and the Sot.
When the Guest was departed, the Kiss was forgot.
But his Kiss was so sweet, and so closely he prest,
That I languish’d and pin’d ’till I granted the rest.

Love, Sir, is a Misfortune that may happen to the most discreet Woman, and in Love we are all Fools alike.—Notwithstanding all he swore, I am now fully convinc’d that Polly Peachum is actually his Wife.—Did I let him escape, (Fool that I was!) to go to her?—Polly will wheedle herself into his Money, and then Peachum will hang him, and cheat us both.

We, Gentlemen, have still Honour enough to break through the Corruptions of the World.—And while I can serve you, you may command me.

I’m like a Skiff on the Ocean tost,
Now high, now low, with each Billow born,
With her Rudder broke, and her Anchor lost,
Deserted and all forlorn.
While thus I lye rolling and tossing all Night,
That Polly lyes sporting on Seas of Delight!
Revenge, Revenge, Revenge,
Shall appease my restless Sprite.

Among the Men, Coquets we find,
Who Court by turns all Woman-kind;
And we grant all their Hearts desir’d,
When they are flatter’d, and admir’d.
The Coquets of both Sexes are Self-lovers, and that is a Love no other whatever can dispossess. I fear, my dear Lucy, our Husband is one of those.

POLLY. Hither, dear Husband, turn your Eyes.

LUCY. Bestow one Glance to cheer me.

POLLY. Think with that Look, thy Polly dyes.

LUCY. O shun me not—but hear me.

POLLY. ’Tis Polly sues.

LUCY. –––––––––––’Tis Lucy speaks.

POLLY. Is thus true Love requited?

LUCY. My Heart is bursting.

POLLY. ––––––––––––––––––Mine too breaks.

LUCY. Must I

POLLY. –––––––Must I be slighted?

LOCKIT. Macheath’s time is come, Lucy.—We know our own Affairs, therefore let us have no more Whimpering or Whining.

[…]

PEACHUM. Set your Heart at rest, Polly.—Your Husband is to dye to-day.—Therefore, if you are not already provided, ’tis high time to look about for another.

The Condemn’d Hold.
MACHEATH, in a melancholy Posture.

AIR 58. Happy Groves.
O cruel, cruel, cruel Case!
Must I suffer this Disgrace?

AIR 59. Of all the Girls that are so smart.
Of all the Friends in time of Grief,
When threatning Death looks grimmer,
Not one so sure can bring Relief,
As this best Friend, a Brimmer.

POLLY. How can I support this Sight!
LUCY. There is nothing moves one so much as a great Man in Distress.

AIR 68. 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.

[Enter Women and Children.]
What—four Wives more!—This is too much.—Here—tell the Sheriffs Officers I am ready.
[Exit MACHEATH guarded.]

PLAYER. But, honest Friend, I hope you don’t intend that Macheath shall be really executed.

BEGGAR. Most certainly, Sir.—To make the Piece perfect, I was for doing strict poetical Justice.—Macheath is to be hang’d; and for the other Personages of the Drama, the Audience must have suppos’d they were all either hang’d or transported.

PLAYER. Why then, Friend, this is a down-right deep Tragedy. The Catastrophe is manifestly wrong, for an Opera must end happily.

BEGGAR. Your Objection, Sir, is very just; and is easily remov’d. For you must allow, that in this kind of Drama, ’tis no matter how absurdly things are brought about.—So—you Rabble there—run and cry a Reprieve—let the Prisoner be brought back to his Wives in Triumph.

PLAYER. All this we must do, to comply with the Taste of the Town.

BEGGAR. Through the whole Piece you may observe such a similitude of Manners in high and low Life, that it is difficult to determine whether (in the fashionable Vices) the fine Gentlemen imitate the Gentlemen of the Road, or the Gentlemen of the Road the fine Gentlemen.—Had the Play remain’d, as I at first intended, it would have carried a most excellent Moral. ’Twould have shown that the lower Sort of People have their Vices in a degree as well as the Rich: And that they are punish’d for them.

MACHEATH. Thus I stand like the Turk, with his Doxies around;
From all Sides their Glances his Passion confound;
For black, brown, and fair, his Inconstancy burns,
And the different Beauties subdue him by turns:
Each calls forth her Charms, to provoke his Desires:
Though willing to all; with but one he retires.
But think of this Maxim, and put off your Sorrow,
The Wretch of To-day, may be happy To-morrow.