W. Bull. The tailors are the best judges of that; but Champaign, I suppose.
Mock. Is Champaign a tailor? Methinks it were a fitter name for a wig-maker. I think they call my wig a campaign.
W. Bull. You’re clear out, sir—clear out. Champaign is a fine liquor, which all great beaux drink to make ’em witty.
Mock. Witty! O, by the universe, I must be witty! I’ll drink nothing else; I never was witty in my life. Here, Club, bring us a bottle of what d’ye call it—the witty liquor.’
The Widow having retired, Club, Mockmode’s servant, reënters with a bottle and glasses.
‘Mock. Is that the witty liquor? Come, fill the glasses.... But where’s the wit now, Club? Have you found it?
Club. Egad, master, I think ’tis a very good jest.
Mock. What?
Club. Why, drinking. You’ll find, master, that this same gentleman in the straw doublet, this same Will o’ the Wisp, is a wit at the bottom. Here, here, master, how it puns and quibbles in the glass![293]
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.... I fancy this same wine is all sold at Will’s Coffee-house.’