en.

_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 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 downright 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 remained, as I at first intended, it would have carried a most
excellent Moral. 'Twould have shewn 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.

_To them, _Macheath_ with _Rabble_, &c._

_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
marry'd. --As for the rest. --But at present keep your own Secret.

[To _Polly_.

A DANCE.

AIR LXVIII. Lumps of Pudding, &c.

[Music]

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 hi