To Celia

I HATE the town and all its ways; Ridottos, operas, and plays; The ball, the ring, the mall, the court; Wherever the beau-monde resort; Where beauties lie in ambush for folks, Earl Straffords, and the Duke of Norfolks; All coffee-houses, and their praters; All courts of justice, and debaters; All taverns, and the sots within 'em; All bubbles and the rogues that skin 'em. I hate all critics; may they burn all, From Bentley to the Grub Street Journal. All bards, as Dennis hates a pun: Those who have wit, and who have none. All nobles, of whatever station; And all the parsons in the nation. All quacks and doctors read in physic, Who kill or cure a man that is sick. All authors that were ever heard on, From Bavius up to Tommy Gordon; Tradesmen with cringes ever stealing, And merchants, whatsoe'er they deal in. I hate the blades professing slaughter, More than the devil holy water. I hate all scholars, beaus, and squires; Pimps, puppies, parasites, and liars. All courtiers, with their looks so smooth; And players, from Boheme to Booth. I hate the world, cramm'd all together, From beggars, up the Lord knows whither.

Ask you then, Celia, if there be The thing I love? my charmer, thee. Thee more than light, than life adore, Thou dearest, sweetest creature more Than wildest raptures can express; Than I can tell, — or thou canst guess.

Then tho' I bear a gentle mind, Let not my hatred of mankind Wonder within my Celia move, Since she possesses all my love.