Stalk'st sadly silent through this gloom, In breach of Nature's stated laws, For good, or bad, or for no cause, Give now nine knocks;[208] like priests of old, Nine we a sacred number hold.' 'Psha,' cried Profound, (a man of parts, Deep read in all the curious arts, 320 Who to their hidden springs had traced The force of numbers, rightly placed) 'As to the number, you are right; As to the form, mistaken quite. What's nine? Your adepts all agree The virtue lies in three times three.' He said; no need to say it twice, For thrice she knock'd, and thrice, and thrice. The crowd, confounded and amazed, In silence at each other gazed. 330 From Caelia's hand the snuff-box fell; Tinsel, who ogled with the belle, To pick it up attempts in vain, He stoops, but cannot rise again. Immane Pomposo[209] was not heard T' import one crabbed foreign word. Fear seizes heroes, fools, and wits, And Plausible his prayers forgets. At length, as people just awake, Into wild dissonance they break; 340 All talk'd at once, but not a word Was understood or plainly heard. Such is the noise of chattering geese, Slow sailing on the summer breeze; Such is the language Discord speaks In Welsh women o'er beds of leeks; Such the confused and horrid sounds Of Irish in potatoe-grounds. But tired, for even C----'s[210] tongue Is not on iron hinges hung, 350 Fear and Confusion sound retreat, Reason and Order take their seat. The fact, confirm'd beyond all doubt, They now would find the causes out. For this a sacred rule we find Among the nicest of mankind, Which never might exception brook From Hobbes even down to Bolingbroke, To doubt of facts, however true, Unless they know the causes too. 360 Trifle, of whom 'twas hard to tell When he intended ill or well; Who, to prevent all further pother, Probably meant nor one, nor t'other; Who to be silent always loth, Would speak on either side, or both; Who, led away by love of fame, If any new idea came, Whate'er it made for, always said it, Not with an eye to truth, but credit; 370 For orators profess'd, 'tis known, Talk not for our sake, but their own; Who always show'd his talents best When serious things were turn'd to jest, And, under much impertinence, Possess'd no common share of sense; Who could deceive the flying hours With chat on butterflies and flowers; Could talk of powder, patches, paint, With the same zeal as of a saint; 380 Could prove a Sibyl brighter far Than Venus or the Morning Star; Whilst something still so gay, so new, The smile of approbation drew, And females eyed the charming man, Whilst their hearts flutter'd with their fan; Trifle, who would by no means miss An opportunity like this, Proceeding on his usual plan,