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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EPITAPHS. |
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 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
EPITAPHS.
Here lies poor Thomas and his wife, Who led a pretty jarring life;
But all is ended do you see? He holds his tongue, and so does she.
But all is ended do you see? He holds his tongue, and so does she.
If drugs and physic could but save Us mortals from the dreary grave,
'Tis known that I took full enough, Of the Apothecary's stuff,
To have prolong'd life's busy feast To a full century at least;
But, spite of all the Doctor's skill, Of daily draught and nightly pill,
Reader, as sure as you're alive, I was sent here at twenty-five.
'Tis known that I took full enough, Of the Apothecary's stuff,
To have prolong'd life's busy feast To a full century at least;
But, spite of all the Doctor's skill, Of daily draught and nightly pill,
Reader, as sure as you're alive, I was sent here at twenty-five.
Within this tomb a lover lies, Who fell an early sacrifice
To Dolly's unrelenting eyes.
For Dolly's charms poor Damon burn'd,
Disdain the cruel maid return'd:
But, as she danc'd in May-day pride, Dolly fell down and Dolly died,
And now she lays by Damon's side.
Be not hard-hearted then, ye fair! Of Dolly's hapless fate beware!
For sure, you'd better go to bed, To one alive, than one who's dead.
To Dolly's unrelenting eyes.
For Dolly's charms poor Damon burn'd,
Disdain the cruel maid return'd:
But, as she danc'd in May-day pride, Dolly fell down and Dolly died,
And now she lays by Damon's side.
Be not hard-hearted then, ye fair! Of Dolly's hapless fate beware!
For sure, you'd better go to bed, To one alive, than one who's dead.
Beneath the sod the soldier sleeps, Whom cruel war refus'd to spare:
Beside his grave the maiden weeps, And Glory plants the laurel there.
Honour is the warrior's meed, Or spar'd to live, or doom'd to die;
Whether 'tis his lot to bleed, Or join the shout of Victory;
Alike the laurel to the truly brave;
That binds the brow, or consecrates the grave.
Beneath this stone her ashes rest,
Whose memory fills my aching breast!
She sleeps unconscious of the tear That tells the tale of sorrow here;
But still the hope allays my pain That we may live and love again:
Love with a pure seraphic fire, That never, never shall expire.
Beside his grave the maiden weeps, And Glory plants the laurel there.
Honour is the warrior's meed, Or spar'd to live, or doom'd to die;
Whether 'tis his lot to bleed, Or join the shout of Victory;
Alike the laurel to the truly brave;
That binds the brow, or consecrates the grave.
Beneath this stone her ashes rest,
Whose memory fills my aching breast!
She sleeps unconscious of the tear That tells the tale of sorrow here;
But still the hope allays my pain That we may live and love again:
Love with a pure seraphic fire, That never, never shall expire.
Syntax the Sexton now address'd, As on his spade he lean'd to rest.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |