From "Likes and Dislikes"

Whate'er is false, impertinent or dull,
A fop, a meddler, formalist or fool,
O'erbearing consequence, o'ervaunting sense,
The lounger's visit, and the rake's pretence,
The idle man's excuse, the babbler's prate,
These ask for censure, and all these I hate.
I hate the cit, whose tread diurnal brings.
Wit's cast off robes, and learning's worn out things;
At home, abroad, in place, or out of place,
With fearful longitude of knowing face.
Who crowds the jest — half hitting and half hit -
The vapid ribaldry, which is not wit;
Or where misfortune bows a noble heart,
Wounds the seared bosom with satiric dart.
I hate the tattler, whose bad thirst of fame
Seeks rest in publishing his neighbor's shame,
Whose task it is to catch the latent tale,
The rumored doubt, or inuendo stale,
To fan the darling falsehoods as they rise,
To ponder scandal, and to retail lies.
I hate that ever busy, bustling man,
Whose wink or nod direct the village clan,
Intent not on the public joy or good,
Or e'en his own — a point not understood —
But, armed with little talent, much pretence,
Ten grains of impudence, and one of sense,
A strange compound of villain, fop, and clown,
Struts on, the busy-body of the town.
I hate the sly, insiduous, smirking "friend"
Who, ever driving at some secret end,
Bespeaks your interest for a vote or place,
With smiling sweet amenity of face;
A splendor based upon a neighbor's cash;
Rogues escaped halter, prison, stocks, or lash:
All these, howe'er allied to fortune or to fate,
Demand my censure, and all these I hate.