MACHEATH. O pretty, pretty Poll.

POLLY. And are YOU as fond as ever, my Dear?

MACHEATH. Suspect my Honour, my Courage, suspect any thing but my
Love.--May my Pistols miss Fire, and my Mare slip her Shoulder while
I am pursu'd, if I ever forsake thee!

POLLY. Nay, my Dear, I have no Reason to doubt you, for I find in
the Romance you lent me, none of the great Heroes were ever false in
Love.

AIR XV. Pray, Fair one, be kind -

MACHEATH. My Heart was so free,
It rov'd like the Bee,
'Till Polly my Passion requited;
I sipt each Flower,
I chang'd every Hour,
But here every Flower is united.

POLLY. Were you sentenc'd to Transportation, sure, my Dear, you
could not leave me behind you--could you?

MACHEATH. Is there any Power, any Force that could tear me from
thee? You might sooner tear a Pension out of the Hands of a
Courtier, a Fee from a Lawyer, a pretty Woman from a Looking-glass,
or any Woman from Quadrille.--But to tear me from thee is impossible!

AIR XVI. Over the Hills and far away.