AIR II. The bonny gray-eyed morn, etc.
|FILCH. 'Tis woman that seduces all mankind,||35|
She tricks us of our money with our hearts.
For her, like wolves by night we roam for prey,
|And practise ev'ry fraud to bribe her charms;||40|
PEACH. But make haste to Newgate,1 boy, and let my friends know what I intend; for I love to make
|them easy one way or other.||45|
FILCH. When a gentleman is long kept in suspense, penitence may break his spirit ever after. Besides, certainty gives a man a good air upon his trial, and makes him risk another without fear or
|scruple. But I'll away, for 'tis a pleasure to be||50|
PEACH. But 'tis now high time to look about me for a decent execution against next sessions.2 I hate a lazy rogue, by whom one can get nothing till he is hanged. (Reading.) 'A register of the gang.
|Crook-fingered Jack.' A year and a half in the||5|
|Six dozen of handkerchiefs, four silver-hilted||10|
|ence of mind upon the road. 'Wat Dreary, alias||15|
|rascal, without the least genius; that fellow,||20|
|trade as a tailor, which he calls an honest em||25|
|cut himself short by murder. ' Tom Tipple' --||30|
|Bob Booty --'5||35|
PEACHUM, MRS. PEACHUM.
MRS. PEACH. What of Bob Booty, husband? I hope nothing bad hath betided him? You know, my dear, he's a favorite customer of mine. 'Twas he made me a present of this ring.
PEACH. I have set his name down in the black 5 list, that's all, my dear; he spends his life among women, and as soon as his money is gone, one or other of the ladies will hang him for the reward, and there's forty pound lost to us forever.
MRS. PEACH. You know, my dear, I never 10 meddle in matters of death; I always leave those affairs to you. Women indeed are bitter bad judges in these cases, for they are so partial to the brave, that they think every man handsome who is going
|to the camp or the gallows.||15|
AIR III. Cold and raw, etc.
If any wench Venus's girdle wear,
Though she be never so ugly;
Lilies and roses will quickly appear,
And her face look wond'rous smugly.
|Beneath the left ear so fit but a cord,||20|
And we cry, 'There dies an Adonis!'
But really, husband, you should not be too hard
|hearted, for you never had a finer, braver set of||25|