Lucy. _But leave us when they’ve won us_.
_Lucy_. Love is so very whimsical in both Sexes, that it is impossible to be lasting.—But my Heart is particular, and contradicts my own Observation.
_Polly_. But really, Mistress _Lucy_, by his last Behaviour, I think I ought to envy you.—When I was forc’d from him, he did not shew the least Tenderness.—But perhaps, he hath a Heart not capable of it.
AIR XLIX. Would Fate to me _Belinda_ give.
_Among the Men_, _Coquettes 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 Coquettes of both Sexes are Self-lovers, and that is a Love no other whatever can dispossess. I hear, my dear _Lucy_, our Husband is one of those.
_Lucy_. Away with these melancholy Reflections,—indeed, my dear _Polly_, we are both of us a Cup too low—Let me prevail upon you to accept of my Offer.
_Come_, _sweet Lass_, _Let’s banish Sorrow_ _’Till To-morrow_; _Come_, _sweet Lass_, _Let’s take a chirping Glass_. _Wine can clear_ _The Vapours of Despair_ _And make us light as Air_; _Then drink_, _and banish Care_.
I can’t bear, Child, to see you in such low Spirits.—And I must persuade you to what I know will do you good. [_Aside_.] I shall now soon be even with the hypocrytical Strumpet.
_Polly_. All this Wheedling of _Lucy_ cannot be for nothing.—At this time too! when I know she hates me!—The Dissembling of a Woman is always the Forerunner of Mischief.—By pouring Strong-Waters down my Throat, she thinks to pump some Secrets out of me,—I’ll be upon my Guard, and won’t taste a Drop of her Liquor, I’m resolv’d.
_Polly_. Indeed, Child, you have given yourself trouble to no purpose.—You must, my Dear, excuse me.
_Lucy_. Really, Miss _Polly_, you are as squeamishly affected about taking a Cup of Strong-Waters as a Lady before Company. I vow, _Polly_, I shall take it monstrously ill if you refuse me.—Brandy and Men (though Women love them ever so well) are always taken by us with some Reluctance—unless ’tis in private.
_Polly_. I protest, Madam, it goes against me.—What do I see! _Macheath_ again in Custody!—Now every Glimm’ring of Happiness is lost.
[_Drops the Glass of Liquor on the Ground_.