QUID (cont.):

Hail, finger-footed lovely Creatures! 
The females of our human Natures, 
        Formed to suckle all Mankind. 
'Tis you that come in time of need; 
Without you we should never Breed, 
        Or any Comfort find. 

For if a Damsel's blind or lame, 
Or Nature's hand has crooked her frame, 
        Or if she's deaf, or is wall-eyed, 
Yet if her heart is well inclined, 
Some tender lover she shall find 
        That panteth for a Bride. 

The universal Poultice this, 
To cure whatever is amiss 
        In Damsel or in Widow gay. 
It makes them smile, it makes them skip, 
Like Birds just cured of the pip, 
        They chirp, & hop away. 

Then come ye Maidens, come ye Swains, 
Come & be cured of all your pains 
        In Matrimony's Golden cage.

[lovers realize by third stanza that they are the butt of a joke]

SCOPPRELL:

I, I well, go and be hanged! How can you have the face to make fun of Matrimony? [charges QUID; GITTIPIN and COLUMN keep them from fighting]

GITTIPIN:

Quid always spoils good company in this manner & it's a shame.

QUID:

[in disgust] Obtuse Angle, a song.