The three tours of Doctor Syntax In search of 1. The picturesque, 2. Of consolation, 3. Of a wife. The text complete. [By William Combe] With four illustrations |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
—Now there's a feeling, more or less, Which I believe we all possess:
And, if by reason 'tis controul'd, May aid the courage of the bold;
To manners it may add a grace, And with gay smiles adorn the face:
Nay, in its soften'd state impart, A gen'rous impulse to the heart:—
'Tis vanity; which now impress'd Its influence on the Doctor's breast,
And whisper'd to him to attend To the warm counsels of his friend.
Thus Pat was order'd to unfold
All that the trav'lling-trunk could hold;
To shew the drap'ry to the day, And bring the best suit into play,
To give the wig a modish figure, And ev'ry curl becoming vigour.
Pat thus employ'd his utmost art,
And Syntax soon was trim and smart, Prepar'd to play a lover's part:
Nay he was as to outward show, A gay ecclesiastic Beau.
The party now sat down to dine,
The well-dress'd dish, the gen'rous wine,
Cocker'd the Doctor into spirit, And sense of his superior merit.
—The toilet too had done its part, With every fashionable art,
And yielded its cosmetic arms To heighten the fair Widow's charms.
—Thus as the Minster clock struck five, Syntax inspir'd and all alive,
With humble air, that look'd like shame,
Appear'd before th'expecting dame.
But while she did the forms prepare Of who sits here, or who sits there,
The 'Squire had popp'd behind the screen,
To hear what pass'd and not be seen.
“—I see,” she said, “that Hearty's gone,
And means to leave us here alone.
I love him well, he is my friend, But much I wish that he would mend
His antic tricks, his darling fun,
Which men of sterling sense would shun.
On gen'ral conduct we agree, Though his wit is not wit for me.
But we must let, in life's short day,
Those whom we value have their way.
The best are to some failings prone,
And we should try to mend our own.”
Syntax.—
“Madam I came, as 'tis my duty,
To pay my homage to your beauty!
But from the sentiments you deal in, You make in me superior feeling
To that inspir'd by the rose, Which on the cheek of beauty blows:
And I must other thoughts infer To please the fair Philosopher.
Philosophy in various ways Asks of the wise the highest praise.
I mean not that, whose study pries Into those dark obscurities
Of doubtful Science, where the eye Is dimm'd by its uncertainty;
But that, whose search does not prolong,
Beyond what's right and what is wrong;
Which you will think is well defin'd The moral structure of the mind.
Him I pronounce a perfect sage, Of any clime, of any age,
Above all learning he may show
Who does his high-wrought science know;
Who, to all common int'rests blind,
Instructs the conscience of mankind.
—But when we see, though rare the sight,
This happy science shining bright,
And 'neath the warmth of Beauty's ray Beaming around the moral day,
Thus giving to fair virtue's laws,
Those smiles which best support her cause;
It is a vision sweet to view, And such as I behold in you.”
—The widow simper'd, smil'd, and sigh'd,
And bending forward, thus replied:
“—Doctor you clothe your manly sense
In a most winning eloquence:
With ease and energy it flows And bears conviction as it goes.
To your whole reas'ning I incline;— So pray, Sir, take a glass of wine,
And, with this wish, I'll take its brother:—
May we know more, Sir, of each other.”
With his right hand upon his breast,
The Doctor then the Dame address'd—
“Madam, I swear your charms are such,
Of you I could not know too much.”
“O,” she exclaim'd, “I'm all confusion,
You compliment in such profusion!
Pray cool your palate with the fruit,— In the mean time I'll try my lute,
And sing a philosophic air; 'Twill suit your doctrine to a hair:
It was but yesterday I bought it, And I could almost think you wrote it.
I cannot say that I approve The songs that tell of nought but love;
Where Love is here, and Love is there,
In short, where Love is every where;
Which, in soft language, teach our misses
To warble sighs and long for kisses.
To leave it altogether out, Might be an affectation thought;
But Love should not, I do contend, Begin and go on to the end;
Which, for I speak, Sir, as I feel, And for its truth I now appeal
To ev'ry husband, ev'ry wife, Is so unlike the real life.—
—My voice is slender, and I play But in a very common way:
Though well I know that to the sky, You will applaud my melody;
Nay, if in ev'ry note I fail, You'll call me sweetest nightingale.”
And, if by reason 'tis controul'd, May aid the courage of the bold;
To manners it may add a grace, And with gay smiles adorn the face:
Nay, in its soften'd state impart, A gen'rous impulse to the heart:—
'Tis vanity; which now impress'd Its influence on the Doctor's breast,
And whisper'd to him to attend To the warm counsels of his friend.
Thus Pat was order'd to unfold
All that the trav'lling-trunk could hold;
To shew the drap'ry to the day, And bring the best suit into play,
To give the wig a modish figure, And ev'ry curl becoming vigour.
Pat thus employ'd his utmost art,
And Syntax soon was trim and smart, Prepar'd to play a lover's part:
Nay he was as to outward show, A gay ecclesiastic Beau.
The party now sat down to dine,
The well-dress'd dish, the gen'rous wine,
Cocker'd the Doctor into spirit, And sense of his superior merit.
—The toilet too had done its part, With every fashionable art,
And yielded its cosmetic arms To heighten the fair Widow's charms.
—Thus as the Minster clock struck five, Syntax inspir'd and all alive,
With humble air, that look'd like shame,
Appear'd before th'expecting dame.
But while she did the forms prepare Of who sits here, or who sits there,
The 'Squire had popp'd behind the screen,
To hear what pass'd and not be seen.
“—I see,” she said, “that Hearty's gone,
And means to leave us here alone.
I love him well, he is my friend, But much I wish that he would mend
His antic tricks, his darling fun,
Which men of sterling sense would shun.
On gen'ral conduct we agree, Though his wit is not wit for me.
But we must let, in life's short day,
Those whom we value have their way.
The best are to some failings prone,
And we should try to mend our own.”
183
“Madam I came, as 'tis my duty,
To pay my homage to your beauty!
But from the sentiments you deal in, You make in me superior feeling
To that inspir'd by the rose, Which on the cheek of beauty blows:
And I must other thoughts infer To please the fair Philosopher.
Philosophy in various ways Asks of the wise the highest praise.
I mean not that, whose study pries Into those dark obscurities
Of doubtful Science, where the eye Is dimm'd by its uncertainty;
But that, whose search does not prolong,
Beyond what's right and what is wrong;
Which you will think is well defin'd The moral structure of the mind.
Him I pronounce a perfect sage, Of any clime, of any age,
Above all learning he may show
Who does his high-wrought science know;
Who, to all common int'rests blind,
Instructs the conscience of mankind.
—But when we see, though rare the sight,
This happy science shining bright,
And 'neath the warmth of Beauty's ray Beaming around the moral day,
Thus giving to fair virtue's laws,
Those smiles which best support her cause;
It is a vision sweet to view, And such as I behold in you.”
—The widow simper'd, smil'd, and sigh'd,
And bending forward, thus replied:
“—Doctor you clothe your manly sense
In a most winning eloquence:
With ease and energy it flows And bears conviction as it goes.
To your whole reas'ning I incline;— So pray, Sir, take a glass of wine,
And, with this wish, I'll take its brother:—
May we know more, Sir, of each other.”
With his right hand upon his breast,
The Doctor then the Dame address'd—
“Madam, I swear your charms are such,
Of you I could not know too much.”
“O,” she exclaim'd, “I'm all confusion,
You compliment in such profusion!
Pray cool your palate with the fruit,— In the mean time I'll try my lute,
And sing a philosophic air; 'Twill suit your doctrine to a hair:
It was but yesterday I bought it, And I could almost think you wrote it.
I cannot say that I approve The songs that tell of nought but love;
Where Love is here, and Love is there,
In short, where Love is every where;
Which, in soft language, teach our misses
To warble sighs and long for kisses.
To leave it altogether out, Might be an affectation thought;
But Love should not, I do contend, Begin and go on to the end;
Which, for I speak, Sir, as I feel, And for its truth I now appeal
To ev'ry husband, ev'ry wife, Is so unlike the real life.—
—My voice is slender, and I play But in a very common way:
Though well I know that to the sky, You will applaud my melody;
Nay, if in ev'ry note I fail, You'll call me sweetest nightingale.”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |