To Celia (Fielding)

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 beThe thing I love? my charmer, thee.Thee more than light, than life adore,Thou dearest, sweetest creature moreThan wildest raptures can express;Than I can tell, — or thou canst guess.

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