Stand up unconscious, and refute the charge.

So, when the Jewish leader ftretch'd his arm,
And way'd his rod divine, a race obfcene,

Spawn'd in the muddy beds of Nile, came forth,
Polluting Egypt: gardens, fields, and plains,
Were cover'd with the peft; the ftreets were fill'd;
The croaking nuisance lurk'd in ev'ry nook ;
Nor palaces, nor even chambers, 'fcap'd;
And the land ftank-fo num'rous was the fry.

THE

TAS K.

BOOK III.

ARGUMENT OF THE THIRD BOOK.

Self-recollection and reproof.—Address to domestic happinefs.-Some account of myself.-The vanity of many of their purfuits who are reputed wife.-Fuftification of my cenfures.-Divine illumination necessary to the most expert philofopher.-The question, What is truth? anfwered by other questions.-Domestic happiness addreffed 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 deferted at that feafon.—Ruinous effects of gaming and of expenfive improvement.-Book concludes with an apostrophe to the metropolis.

THE

TA S K.

BOOK III.

THE

GARDE N.

As one who, long in thickets and in brakes
Entangled, winds now this way and now that
His devious course uncertain, feeking home;
Or, having long in miry ways been foil'd
And fore discomfited, from flough to flough
Plunging, and half despairing of escape;

If chance at length he find a greenfward smooth
And faithful to the foot, his fpirits rife,
He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed,

And winds his way with pleasure and with ease;
So I, defigning other themes, and call'd

T'adorn the Sofa with eulogium due,

To tell its flumbers, and to paint its dreams,
Have rambled wide. In country, city, feat
Of academic fame (howe'er deferv'd),
Long held, and fcarcely difengag'd at last.
But now, with pleafant pace, a cleanlier road
I mean to tread. I feel myfelf 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 pårt an empty ineffectual found, What chance that I, to fame fo little known, Nor converfant with men or manners much, Should fpeak to purpose, or with better hope Crack the fatiric thong? 'Twere wifer far For me, enamour'd of fequefter'd scenes, And charm'd with rural beauty, to repose, Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine, My languid limbs, when fummer fears the plains;