Fellows at her Ear without complying with one,
I should not matter it; but _Polly_ is Tinder, and a Spark will at once
set her on a Flame. Married! If the Wench does not know her own Profit,
sure she knows her own Pleasure better than to make herself a Property!
My Daughter to me should be, like a Court-Lady to a Minister of State,
a Key to the whole Gang. Married! If the Affair is not already done,
I'll terrify her from it, by the Example of our Neighbours.

_Mrs. Peachum._ May-hap, my Dear, you may injure the Girl. She loves to
imitate the fine Ladies, and she may only allow the Captain Liberties in
the view of Interest.

_Peachum._ But 'tis your Duty, my Dear, to warn the Girl against her
Ruin, and to instruct her how to make the most of her Beauty. I'll go to
her this moment, and sift her. In the meantime, Wife, rip out the
Coronets and Marks of these Dozen of Cambric Handkerchiefs, for I can
dispose of them this Afternoon to a Chap in the City.

[Exit _Peachum_.

_Mrs. Peachum._ Never was a Man more out of the way in an Argument than
my Husband! Why must our _Polly_, forsooth, differ from her Sex, and
love only her Husband? And why must _Polly's_ Marriage, contrary to all
Observations, make her the less followed by other Men? All Men are
Thieves in Love, and like a Woman the better for being another's
Property.

AIR V. Of all the simple Things we do, &c.

[Music]

A Maid is like the Golden Ore,
Which hath Guineas intrinsical in't,
Whose Worth is never known before
It is try'd and imprest in the Mint.
A Wife's like a Guinea in Gold,
Stampt with the Name of her Spouse;
Now here, now there; is bought, or is sold;
And is current in every House.

Enter _Filch_.

_Mrs. Peachum._ Come hither, _Filch_. I am as fond of this Child, as
though my Mind misgave me he were my own. He hath as fine a Hand at
picking a Pocket as a Woman, and is as nimble-finger'd as a Juggler. If
an unlucky Session does not cut the Rope of thy Life, I pronounce, Boy,
thou wilt be a great Man in History. Where was your Post last Night, my
Boy?

_Filch._ I ply'd at the Opera, Madam; and considering 'twas neither dark
nor rainy, so that there was no great Hurry in getting Chairs and
Coaches, made a tolerable Hand on't. These seven Handkerchiefs, Madam.

_Mrs. Peachum._ Colour'd ones, I see. They are of sure Sale from our
Warehouse at _Redriff_ among the Seamen.

_Filch._ And this Snuff-box.

_Mrs. Pe