| |
| 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, | 5 |
| 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. | 10 |
| 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; | 15 |
| 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; | 20 |
| 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; | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| 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; | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
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