And bring thee to the fatal Cart,
Thus I tear thee from my bleeding Heart!
Fly hence, and let me leave thee.

One Kiss and then--one Kiss--be gone--farewel.

MACHEATH. My Hand, my Heart, my Dear, is so riveted to thine, that I
cannot unloose my Hold.

POLLY. But my Papa may intercept thee, and then I should lose the
very glimmering of Hope. A few Weeks, perhaps, may reconcile us all.
Shall thy Polly hear from thee?

MACHEATH. Must I then go?

POLLY. And will not Absence change your Love?

MACHEATH. If you doubt it, let me stay--and be hang'd.

POLLY. O how I fear! how I tremble!--Go--but when Safety will give
you leave, you will be sure to see me again; for 'till then Polly is
wretched.

AIR XVIII. O the Broom, &c.

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 ay.