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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 Nik, came forthj
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-recolleblion and rep-oof.Address to domestic happiness.Some account of myself .The vanity of many of their pursuits who are reputed wife.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 hare.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 effeRs of gaming and of expensive improvement.Book concludes with an apostrophe to the metropolis.

THE

S K.

BOOK III.

THE GARDEN.

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 foil'd And fore discomfited, from slough to slough Plunging, and half despairing of escape; If chance at length he find a greensward smooth And faithful to the foot, his spirits 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

J

T' adorn the Sofa with eulogium due,
•To tell its slumbers, and to paint its dreams,
Have rambled wide. In country, city, feat
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 founding-boards reflect
Most part an empty ineffectual found,
What chance that I, to fame so little known,
Nor conversant with men or manners much,
Should speak to purpose, or witjh 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 sears the plains;

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