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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 ftank-so num'rous was the fry.

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Self-recollection and reproof.-- Address to domestic happi

ness.—Some account of myself.The vanity of many of their pursuits who are reputed wife. ---Jufiification of my cenfures.--Divine illumination necessary to the most expert philosopher.-The question, Wbat 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 ccuntry preferable to the town even in the winter. - Reasons why it is deserted at that season.Ruinous effets of gaming and of expensive improvement.--Book concludes with an apostrophe to the metropolis.

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As one who, long in thickets and in brakes Entangled, winds now this

now that His devious course uncertain, seeking home; Or, having long in miry ways been foild And fore discomfited, from sough 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 case; So I, designing other themes, and callid

way and

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 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 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;

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