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, Repeats the jest, half hitting and half hit, The vapid ribaldry, which is not wit; Or where misfortune bows a noble heart, Wounds the sear’d bosom with satiric dart.
I hate the sea-fop, whose obtrusive lore, Repeated oft, can please the ear no more, Whose vast credulity and only care, Is to raise wonder, and produce a stare; Yet if they pall, or if the jaded tales A doubt creates—he with his “log-book” nails.
I hate the tattler, whose bold thirst of fame Is based on 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 pander scandal, and to retail lies.
I hate that ever-busy, bustling man, Whose wink or nod directs the village clan, Intent, not on the public weal or good, Or e’en his own—a point not understood— But urged by little talent, much pretence, Ten grains of impudence, and one of sense: A strange compound of villain, fop, and clown, He struts the busy-body of the town.
I hate the sly, insidious, smirking friend, Who, ever driving at some secret end, Bespeaks your interest for a vote or place, With smiling sweet sincerity of face, Yet, all the while with bitter malice fed, Is working to deprive you of your bread.
I hate the gourmand, whose eternal wish Is centred in a bottle or a dish: Law without justice, physic without skill, Priests without reason, laymen without will; Misguided charity, delusive zeal, Or for religion, or the common weal: Power without mercy, humor void of sense, Affected greatness, beggarly pretence: 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.
My hatreds into love now let me turn: I love the breast where truth and nature burn, The virtuous poor man, struggling to be free, The rich, not dazzled with his high degree; The sage’s wish, the patriot’s calm desire, The painter’s fancy, and the poet’s fire, The modest step, the frank, unvarnish’d air, The fame unsullied, and the virtue fair.