Four women more, Captain, with a child apiece! See, here they come.
Enter women and children.
Macheath
What—four wives more!—This is too much—Here—tell the sheriff’s officers I am ready. Exit Macheath guarded.
To them, enter Player and Beggar.
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 hanged; and for the other personages of the drama, the audience must have supposed they were all either hanged or transported.
Player
Why then, friend, this is a downright deep tragedy. The catastrophe is manifestly wrong, for an opera must end happily.
Beggar
Your objection, sir, is very just, and is easily removed. 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 remained, 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 punished for them.
To them, Macheath with Rabble, etc.
Macheath
So, it seems, I am not left to my choice, but must have a wife at last.—Look ye, my dears, we will have no controversy now. Let us give this day to mirth, and I am sure she who thinks herself my wife will testify her joy by a dance.
All
Come, a dance—a dance.
Macheath
Ladies, I hope you will give me leave to present a partner to each of you. And (if I may without offence) for this time, I take Polly for mine.—And for life, you slut—for we were really married.—As for the rest.—But at present keep your own secret. To Polly.
A Dance
Air LXVIII. Lumps of pudding, etc.
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 today, may be happy tomorrow.
