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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 peft. 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.
ARGUMENT of the THIRD BOOK.
Self-recollection and reproof.---- Address to domestic happi
nefs.- 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-feeds. -The country preferable to the town even in the winter. - Reasons why it is deserted at that seafon. — Ruinous effects of gaming and of expenhve improvement. -- Book concludes with an apostrophe to the metropolis.
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 Nough to sough
Plunging, and half despairing of escape,
If chance at length he find a green-fward smootli
And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise,
He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed,
And winds his way with pleasure
with pleasure and with ease;
So I, designing other themes, and call’d
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
Moft part an empty ineffectual 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,