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Show 22 Love and a Bottle. y0U-_Ah, my poor Robin I He dy'd of an Apoplexy-he was as pretty a young M a n as ever ftep'd into a Black- Leather Shoe: He was as like you, Mr. Mockmode, as one Egg is like another; he dy'd like an Angel-But I a m fure lie might have recover'd but for the Phyficians Oh thefe Doftors! thefe Dodors! Mock. Blefs the Doclors, I fay; for I believe they kill'd my houeft old Father. Bull. Ay, that's true. If m y Robin had left m e an Eftate, I fhou'd have faid fo too. (Cries. Mock. Zauns, Madam, you muft not be melancholy, Madam. Bull. Well, Sir, I hope you'll give us the Beverage of your fineCloaths. I'll aflure you, Sir, they fit you very well, and I like your Fancy mightily^ Mock. Ay, ay, Madam. But what's moft modifh for Beverage? For, I fuppofe, the Fafhion of that alters always with the Cloaths. Bull. The Taylors are the beft Judges of that-But Cham-paigne, I fuppofe. Mock. Is Champaigne a Taylor? N o w , methinks, that were a fitter N a m e for a Wig-maker. 1 think they call m y W i g a Campaigne. Bull. You're clear out, Sir, clear out. Champaigne is a fine Liquor, which all you great Beaux drink to make 'em witty. Mock. Witty ! Oh, by the Univerfe, I muft be witty. Ill drink nothing elfe; I never was witty in all m y Life. I love Jokes dearly. Here, Club, bring us a Bottle of what d'ye call it; the witty Liquor. (ExitClub. Bull. But I thought all you that were bred at the Univerr fity fhou'd be Wits naturally. Mock. The quite contrary. Madam, there's no fuch thing there. W e dare not have W i t there, for fear of being counted Rakes. Your folid Philofophy is all read there, which is clear another thing. But now I will be a Wit, by the Univerfe. I muft get acquainted with the great Poets. Landlady, you muft introduce me. Bull. O h dear me, Sir! Wou'd you mine me? I introduce you! N o W i d o w dare be fecn with a Poet, for fear fhe fhou'd be thought to keep him. Mock. Keen him ! What's that? They keep nothing but Sheep in the Country ; I hope they don't fleece the Wits ? Bull. Alas, Sir 1 They have no Fleeces; there's a great Cry, wr.h bthuet Plaitettlse, W Io oclaln. prHeovwaielv ewri,t hif ay oGue nwtolue'mde nb eqo aufca qimunyat iaAnntceed |