Apple. “Addison was an ass. (Puff.) Infund some coffee instanter. How beautifully clear! ’Tis pure as Heaven.”
Nescio. “Yes! I’ll wager my Kent’s Commentaries against Nat. Willis’s poems, that not the ordinaires of London, the restaurateurs of Paris, or the cafès of Madrid, can furnish better.”
Pulito. “Ha! ha! One would think from that long array of ‘instances,’ that you were really a ‘man of travel,’ and were perfectly at home in St. James’ Square or the Rue de St. Honorie.”
Nescio. “I have heard of them, which is just as well.”
Apple. “Do you know, friend Quod, that we do wrong in drinking coffee so transparent?”
Nescio. “No! how, I pray? Instruct us.”
Apple. “Why, we ought always to see the grounds of what we imbibe.”
Pulito. “Oh! spare us, incorrigible wretch. ‘Wilt never cease?’”
Nescio. “How long were you loading that gun, Apple?”
Apple. “Rest you content, fair sir. ’Twas an improvisation—a direct inspiration from Mercury.”