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William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909.

To Celia

Henry Fielding (1707–1754)

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 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 my love.