he rails still at the man that is absent, for all wits rail; and his wit properly lies in combing perukes, matching ribbons, and being severe, as they call it, upon other peoples' clothes." _Lydia._ Now, what is your coffee wit? _Dapperwit._ He is a lying, censorious, gossiping, quibbling wretch, and sets people together by the ears over that sober drink--coffee; he is a wit as he is a commentator upon the Gazette; and he rails at the pirates of Algiers, the Grand Signior of Constantinople, and the Christian Grand Signior. _Lydia._ What kind of wit is your pollwit? _Dap._ He is a fidgetting, busy, dogmatical, hot-headed fop, that speaks always in sentences and proverbs, and he rails perpetually against the present Government. His wit lies in projects and monopolies, and penning speeches for Parliament men-- He goes on to speak of the scribble wit, and judge wit or critic, but in general wits were regarded as rakes and not long afterwards we find it debated whether a woman can be witty and virtuous. Wycherley did not aim much at facetiousness, nor introduce many humorous episodes, but passages incidentally occur which show he had considerable talent in that direction. The first from "Love in a Wood," is an ironical conflict between one Gripe, a rich but parsimous Alderman, and a Mrs. Joyner, a sly, designing old woman. _Gripe._ I am full of your praise, and it will run over. _Joyner._ Nay, sweet Sir, you are---- _Gripe._ Nay, sweet Mrs. Joyner, you are---- _Joy._ Nay, good your worship, you are---- (_Stops her mouth with his handkerchief_) _Gripe._ I say you are---- _Joy._ I must not be rude with your worship. _Gripe._ You are a nursing mother to the saints; through you they gather together, through you they fructify and increase, and through you the child cries out of the hand-basket. _Joy._ Through you virgins are married, or provided for as well; through you the reprobate's wife is made a saint; and through you the widow is not disconsolate, nor misses her husband. _Gripe._ Through you---- _Joy._ Indeed you will put me to the blush. _Gripe._ Blushes are badges of imperfection--Saints have no shame. You are the flower of matrons, Mrs. Joyner. _Joy._ You are the pink of courteous Aldermen. _Gripe._ You are the muffler of secrecy. _Joy._ You are the head-band of Justice. _Gripe._ Thank you, sweet Mrs. Joyner; do you think so indeed? You are--you are the bonfire of devotion. _Joy._ You are the bellows of zeal. _Gripe._ You are the cupboard of charity. _Joy._ You are the fob of liberality. _Gripe._ You are the rivet of sanctified love or wedlock. _Joy._ You are the pick-lock and dark-lantern of policy; and in a word a conventicle of virtues.