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 Dukes 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. I hate the world crammed altogether, 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 though I bear a gentle mind, Let not my hatred of mankind Wonder within my Celia move, Since she possesses all I love. |