Stand up unconscious, and refute the charge.
So, when the Jewish leader stretch'd his arm,
And way'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 ftreets were fillid;
The croaking nuisance lurk’d in ev'ry nook ;
Nor palaces, nor even chambers, 'scap'd;
And the land ftank-fo num'rous was the fry..

ARGUMENT OF THE THIRD BOOK.

Self-recollection and reproof.—Address to domestic happi

ness.--Some account of myself.—The vanity of many of their pursuits who are reputed wise. - Juftification of my censures.--Divine illumination necessary to the most expert philosopher.—The question, Wbat is truth? answered ly 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 season.—Ruinous effe&ts of gaming and of expenfive 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 foild And fore discomfited, from Nough to sough 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 callid

T'adorn the Sofa with eulogium due,
To tell its slumbers, 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 laft.
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 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 fequefter'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 ;