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