And Cibber's be the second name.'-- 540 Here Trifle cough'd, (for coughing still Bears witness of the speaker's skill, A necessary piece of art, Of rhetoric an essential part, And adepts in the speaking trade Keep a cough by them ready made, Which they successfully dispense When at a loss for words or sense) Here Trifle cough'd, here paused--but while He strove to recollect his smile, 550 That happy engine of his art, Which triumph'd o'er the female heart, Credulity, the child of Folly, Begot on cloister'd Melancholy, Who heard, with grief, the florid fool Turn sacred things to ridicule, And saw him, led by Whim away, Still further from the subject stray, Just in the happy nick, aloud, In shape of Moore[213], address'd the crowd: 560 'Were we with patience here to sit, Dupes to the impertinence of Wit, Till Trifle his harangue should end, A Greenland night we might attend, Whilst he, with fluency of speech, Would various mighty nothings teach'-- (Here Trifle, sternly looking down, Gravely endeavour'd at a frown, But Nature unawares stept in, And, mocking, turn'd it to a grin)-- 570 'And when, in Fancy's chariot hurl'd, We had been carried round the world, Involved in error still and doubt, He'd leave us where we first set out. Thus soldiers (in whose exercise Material use with grandeur vies) Lift up their legs with mighty pain, Only to set them down again. Believe ye not (yes, all, I see, In sound belief concur with me) 580 That Providence, for worthy ends, To us unknown, this spirit sends? Though speechless lay the trembling tongue, Your faith was on your features hung; Your faith I in your eyes could see, When all were pale and stared like me. But scruples to prevent, and root Out every shadow of dispute, Pomposo, Plausible, and I, With Fanny, have agreed to try 590 A deep concerted scheme--this night To fix or to destroy her quite. If it be true, before we've done, We'll make it glaring as the sun; If it be false, admit no doubt Ere morning's dawn we'll find it out. Into the vaulted womb of Death, Where Fanny now, deprived of breath, Lies festering, whilst her troubled sprite Adds horror to the gloom of night, 600 Will we descend, and bring from thence Proofs of such force to Common-Sense, Vain triflers shall no more deceive, And atheists tremble and believe.' He said, and ceased; the chamber rung With due applause from every tongue: The mingled sound (now let me see-- Something by way of simile) Was it more like Strymonian cranes, Or winds, low murmuring, when it rains. 610 Or drowsy hum of clustering bees, Or the hoarse roar of angry seas? Or (still to heighten and explain, For else our simile is vain) Shall we declare it like all four, A scream, a murmur, hum, and roar? Let Fancy now, in awful state,