Mock. The quite contrary, Madam, there’s no such thing there.  We dare not have wit there for fear of being counted rakes.  Your solid philosophy is all read there, which is clear another thing.  But now I will be a wit, by the universe....  Is that the witty liquor?  Come fill the glasses.  Now that I have found my mistress, I must next find my wits.

     Club. So you had need, master, for those that find a mistress are
     generally out of their wits. (Gives him a glass.)

     Mock. Come, fill for yourself. (They jingle and drink.) But
     where’s the wit now, Club?  Have you found it?

     Club. Egad! master, I think ’tis a very good jest.

     Mock. What?

Club. What? why drinking—­you’ll find, master, that this same gentleman in the straw doublet, this same will-i’-th’-wisp is a wit at the bottom. (Fills.) Here, here, master; how it puns and quibbles in the glass!

     Mock. By the universe, now I have it!—­the wit lies in the
     jingling.  All wit consists most in jingling; hear how the glasses
     rhyme to one another.

Again:—­

Mock. Could I but dance well, push well,[63] play upon the flute, and swear the most modish oaths, I would set up for quality with e’er a young nobleman of ’em all.  Pray what are the most fashionable oaths in town?  Zoons, I take it, is a very becoming one.

     Rigadoon. (a dancing-master.) Zoons is only used by the
     disbanded officers and bullies, but zauns is the beaux
     pronunciation.

     Mock. Zauns!

Rig. Yes, Sir; we swear as we dance; smooth and with a cadence—­Zauns!  ’Tis harmonious, and pleases the ladies, because it is soft.  Zauns, Madam, is the only compliment our great beaux pass on a lady.

     Mock. But suppose a lady speaks to me; what must I say?

Rig. Nothing, Sir; you must take snuff grin, and make her a humble cringe—­thus:  (Bows foppishly and takes snuff; Mockmode imitates him awkwardly, and taking snuff, sneezes.) O Lord, Sir! you must never sneeze; ’tis as unbecoming after orangery as grace after meat.

     Mock. I thought people took it to clear the brain.

Rig. The beaux have no brains at all, Sir; their skull is a perfect snuff-box; and I heard a physician swear, who opened one of ’em, that the three divisions of his head were filled with orangery, bergamot, and plain Spanish.

     Mock. Zauns!  I must sneeze, (sneezes.) Bless me!

Rig. Oh, fy!  Mr. Mockmode! what a rustical expression that is!  ‘Bless me!’ You should upon all such occasions cry, Dem me!  You would be as nauseous to the ladies as one of the old patriarchs, if you used that obsolete expression.

Sir Harry Wildair gives a good sketch of a lady’s waiting-woman of the time.