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.
AIR L. Come, sweet Lass.
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. [Exit.]
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.
[Re-enter Lucy, with Strong-Waters.]
LUCY. Come, Miss Polly.
Pages:
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101