Stand up unconscious, and refute the charge.
So when the Jewish Leader ftretch'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 'fcap'd,

And the land stank, 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 pursuits who are reputed wise.—Justification 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. Reafons why it is deferted at that Seafon. -Ruinous effects 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 courfe uncertain, seeking home
Or having long in miry ways been foil'd
And fore discomfited, from flough to slough
Plunging, and half defpairing of escape,
If chance at length he find a green-fward 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

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 scarcely difengag'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 sound, What chance that I, to fame fo little known, Nor converfant with men or manners much, Should speak to purpose, or with better hope Crack the fatiric 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 fummer fears the plains,

Or