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 |
 |
 |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | The three tours of Doctor Syntax |  |
For a short time they silent sat, Reflecting on they knew not what;
When 'Squire Ned a glass propos'd,
And thus his friendly thoughts disclos'd.
“His Rev'rence does our counsel crave,
And our best counsel he shall have.
We know that he has lost his wife; And, to renew the happy life
Which his connubial state enjoy'd, His present wishes are employ'd;
And how his loss may be supplied By finding him another bride,
Whose equal virtues may restore The comforts he enjoys no more.
—Among th'unmarried fair we know, And they may be a score or so,
Miss Mary Crotchet strikes my view;
And now, my Cath'rine, what say you?
In all the fine, delightful art,
Whose sounds can raise or melt the heart,
We know full well the Doctor's skill, And that may win her to his will.”
Mrs. Easy.—
“We all admire his manly sense,
His learning and his eloquence,
His pleasant manners and his wit, With such a way of using it;
And I should wish to recommend So rare a husband to my friend:
But all these virtues will not do, 'Tis with his music he must woo;
I know his fiddle will do more Than all his Greek and Latin lore.
No, no, he must make love in score;
Nay, whoe'er wins her, it must be By his deep skill in harmony,
And by the power he has to prove, That Music is the food of Love.
“There's not an instrument they say,
On which Miss Crotchet cannot play,
From the low bag-pipe's dismal hum, To the all-martial kettle-drum:
Nay, in every branch of sound, 'Tis said her knowledge is profound.
For anything that she may want, She asks in a Cathedral Chaunt;
She suits her voice to every key, And can discharge her nose in C.
Though when she lays her music by To mix with gay society,
She's clever, elegant and easy,
With manners that are form'd to please ye.
Now if this scheme you should approve
To forward your designs in love,
Believe me, Sir, I'll not neglect To tell her whom she may expect;
And in the warmest terms commend The virtues of our valued friend:
Though, on reflection, I must own They cannot be to her unknown.
I'm certain, Doctor, there's no danger
That she will treat you as a stranger.”
Syntax.—
“Well, if I do not gain my ends,
It will not be for want of friends,
And I must be completely stupid If I do not find a Cupid
To aid me in the various views Which now my pleasing hopes amuse:
For he's an Urchin that escapes From Cyprian forms to other shapes;
Who, Proteus like, his ends to gain, Can diff'rent characters sustain.
For youth he has the poison'd arrow
That makes a bustle in the marrow,
And to the blood conveys the heat
That makes the am'rous pulses beat;
Which, with soft langour clothes the eyes,
The tongue with vows, the breast with sighs:
But for Miss Crotchet I must find A Cherub of another kind,
Who, when he to his call engages The grave Philosophers and Sages,
His garlands are not made of roses,
Nor does he scatter fragrant posies,
Their beauties with the season's past,
Their fragrance is not made to last,
But on his sober brow is seen The lasting wreaths of ever-green.
Nay, when he wantons in the gay days
Of matrons and of learned ladies,
Another character he bears, And other emblems then he wears.
For stocking blue resigns his bow, And slumbers on a folio.
But in that near approaching hour
When I behold Miss Crotchet's bower,
I must call Cupid, as he chuses To wanton with the lady Muses,
To dip his cup and take his fill Of the clear Heliconian rill;
And, to possess himself of hearts, Play on the dulcimer with darts,
Or inflict all his secret wounds By the soul-soothing pow'r of sounds.
But I've my doubts, I e'en must own, Whether the lady may be won
By any int'rest I may prove With this same treach'rous God of Love.
But should sage Syntax act the fool And feel the shafts of ridicule,
He will, at least, have done no more
Than wiser men have done before;
And when no ill is thought or meant
He'll join the laugh—and be content.
—To-morrow I shall see again The bow'ry scenes of Sommerden,
To pass a grave, reflecting week, Before I my adventures seek;
Re-tune my voice with fara-diddle,
And practise on my welcome fiddle;
I then with spirit shall engage In matrimonial pilgrimage.”
When 'Squire Ned a glass propos'd,
And thus his friendly thoughts disclos'd.
“His Rev'rence does our counsel crave,
And our best counsel he shall have.
We know that he has lost his wife; And, to renew the happy life
Which his connubial state enjoy'd, His present wishes are employ'd;
And how his loss may be supplied By finding him another bride,
Whose equal virtues may restore The comforts he enjoys no more.
—Among th'unmarried fair we know, And they may be a score or so,
Miss Mary Crotchet strikes my view;
And now, my Cath'rine, what say you?
In all the fine, delightful art,
Whose sounds can raise or melt the heart,
We know full well the Doctor's skill, And that may win her to his will.”
Mrs. Easy.—
“We all admire his manly sense,
His learning and his eloquence,
His pleasant manners and his wit, With such a way of using it;
And I should wish to recommend So rare a husband to my friend:
But all these virtues will not do, 'Tis with his music he must woo;
I know his fiddle will do more Than all his Greek and Latin lore.
No, no, he must make love in score;
Nay, whoe'er wins her, it must be By his deep skill in harmony,
And by the power he has to prove, That Music is the food of Love.
“There's not an instrument they say,
On which Miss Crotchet cannot play,
From the low bag-pipe's dismal hum, To the all-martial kettle-drum:
Nay, in every branch of sound, 'Tis said her knowledge is profound.
For anything that she may want, She asks in a Cathedral Chaunt;
She suits her voice to every key, And can discharge her nose in C.
Though when she lays her music by To mix with gay society,
She's clever, elegant and easy,
With manners that are form'd to please ye.
Now if this scheme you should approve
To forward your designs in love,
Believe me, Sir, I'll not neglect To tell her whom she may expect;
And in the warmest terms commend The virtues of our valued friend:
Though, on reflection, I must own They cannot be to her unknown.
I'm certain, Doctor, there's no danger
That she will treat you as a stranger.”
Syntax.—
“Well, if I do not gain my ends,
It will not be for want of friends,
And I must be completely stupid If I do not find a Cupid
To aid me in the various views Which now my pleasing hopes amuse:
For he's an Urchin that escapes From Cyprian forms to other shapes;
Who, Proteus like, his ends to gain, Can diff'rent characters sustain.
For youth he has the poison'd arrow
That makes a bustle in the marrow,
280
That makes the am'rous pulses beat;
Which, with soft langour clothes the eyes,
The tongue with vows, the breast with sighs:
But for Miss Crotchet I must find A Cherub of another kind,
Who, when he to his call engages The grave Philosophers and Sages,
His garlands are not made of roses,
Nor does he scatter fragrant posies,
Their beauties with the season's past,
Their fragrance is not made to last,
But on his sober brow is seen The lasting wreaths of ever-green.
Nay, when he wantons in the gay days
Of matrons and of learned ladies,
Another character he bears, And other emblems then he wears.
For stocking blue resigns his bow, And slumbers on a folio.
But in that near approaching hour
When I behold Miss Crotchet's bower,
I must call Cupid, as he chuses To wanton with the lady Muses,
To dip his cup and take his fill Of the clear Heliconian rill;
And, to possess himself of hearts, Play on the dulcimer with darts,
Or inflict all his secret wounds By the soul-soothing pow'r of sounds.
But I've my doubts, I e'en must own, Whether the lady may be won
By any int'rest I may prove With this same treach'rous God of Love.
But should sage Syntax act the fool And feel the shafts of ridicule,
He will, at least, have done no more
Than wiser men have done before;
And when no ill is thought or meant
He'll join the laugh—and be content.
—To-morrow I shall see again The bow'ry scenes of Sommerden,
To pass a grave, reflecting week, Before I my adventures seek;
Re-tune my voice with fara-diddle,
And practise on my welcome fiddle;
I then with spirit shall engage In matrimonial pilgrimage.”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |