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Stand up unconscious, and refute the charge.
So when the Jewish Leader stretch'd his arm,
And wav'd his rod divine, a race obscene,
Spawn'd in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth,
Polluting Ægypt. Gardens, fields, and plains
Were cover'd with the pest. The streets were fill’d;
The croaking nuisance lurk’d in ev'ry nook,
Nor palaces nor even chambers 'scap'd,
And the land stank, so num'rous was the fry ,

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ARGUMENT of the Third BOOK.

Self-recollečtion and reproof.-Address to domestic heppi

ness.-- Some account of myself. The vanity of many of their pursuits who are reputed wise.Justification of my censures.-Divine illumination necessary to the most expert philosopher. The question, What is truth? answered by other questions.-- Domestic happiness addressed again.-Few lovers of the country.--My tame bare.-Occupations of a retired gentleman in his garden.--- Pruning.Framing.Greenhouse.Sowing of flower-jeeds.The country preferable to the town even in the winter. Reasons why it is deserted at that season. --- Ruinous effects of gaming and of expensive improvement. --- Book concludes with an apostrophe to the metropolis.

THE

TA S K.

воок ІІ. THE GARDEN.

nce

As one who, long in thickets and in brakes
Entangled, winds now this way and now that
His devious course uncertain, seeking home;
Or having long in miry ways been foild
And fore discomfited, from Nough to Nough
Plunging, and half despairing of escape,
If chance at length he find a green-fward smooth
And faithful to the foot, his fpirits rise,
He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed,
And winds his way with pleasure and with ease;
So I, designing other themes, and call’d

T'adorn

T'adorn the Sofa with eulogium due,
To tell its Numbers and to paint its dreams,
Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat
Of academic fame (howe'er deserv'd)
Long held, and scarcely disengag’d at last.
But now with pleasant pace, a cleanlier road
I mean to tread. I feel myself at large,
Courageous, and refresh'd for future toil,
If toil await me, or if dangers new.

Since pulpits fail, and sounding-boards reflect Most part an empty ineffe&tual sound, What chance that I, to fame so little known, Nor conversant with men or manners much, Should speak to purpose, or with better hope Crack the satiric thong ? 'twere wiser far For me, enamour'd of sequester’d scenes, And charm’d with rural beauty, to repose Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine, My languid limbs when summer fears the plains,

Or

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