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 |  |
He paus'd—a willing ear he lent To hear his hope's accomplishment,
But Ma'am said nought—though that's consent,
He thought, if but the adage old Does a decided truth unfold;
At least he chose thus to infer And be self-love's interpreter:
Though soon this charm the lady broke,
And thus with serious aspect spoke.
“The dream in which your fancies shine
Will never be a dream of mine,
No ne'er again my heart will prove The pleasures or the pains of love;
Whether 'tis in the heart or liver, I defy Cupid and his quiver,
Though I may not disdain the hour
Which bears me into Hymen's bower,
But then it will be reason's care To lead me as a votary there;
And all that I shall look to find Will be the husband of my mind.
Or be he fat, or be he thin, Whether his long and pointed chin
Appears as if it meant to rest Upon the cushion of his chest,
Or if his prolongated nose
Should guard his grinning mouth from blows,
Whether the one or t'other eye Or both indeed should look awry,
I care not—'tis his sense refin'd, And chaste decorums of the mind,
Which will my inclinations move To join in pure seraphic love.”
The Doctor wonder'd at the whim, But it might be a hint to him;
So, on his steady purpose bent, He still pursued his argument.
—He reason'd long, he reason'd deep, He reason'd till she fell asleep:
He saw indeed her eyes were clos'd,
Though he ne'er fancied that she dos'd,
But thought she took this blindfold course
To give attention greater force.
The tea and rattling china's sound,
Now 'woke her from her sleep profound;
But 'twas again to hear him prove,
What ancient bards had sung of love,
And what philosophers had wrote,
He did not fail with warmth to quote:
The subject was not of her chusing,
But still she found the sage amusing:
Science and wit he did combine, 'Till the turret-clock struck nine,
When there appear'd the ev'ning wine,
With season'd sandwiches to boot, That would the nicest palate suit.
—To the Muse it is not known Whether it were from frolic done,
The Doctor's high-flown thoughts to quicken,
And cause the evening plot to thicken,
But the round tray did not resort To the dull flow of humble port,
Inspiring champagne, sparkling, bright,
Was the rich order of the night,
When Syntax, having wet his whistle,
Seiz'd on the high-wrought, fam'd epistle
Which Sappho to her Phaon wrote; A poem far too long to quote,
But, mov'd by the impassion'd verse
Thus did the lover's pains rehearse,
Or whether the enliv'ning juice Had made his spirits too profuse,
The widow felt the gay divine Dispos'd to act the libertine;
And therefore thought it time to rule His wilfulness to play the fool.
“Doctor, you just now talk'd of livers,
Of bleeding hearts and Cupid's quivers;
But you would wish me to suppose Love makes his entry at the toes,
Or wherefore do you thus incline To let your broad foot press on mine.
For shame, Sir, you who court the Graces!
Your feet are in improper places;
Why, my good friend, it is most shocking,
You'll rub the blue, Sir, off my stocking.
Susan, I'm sure, will look askew, If on the clocks she chance to view
The symptoms of your awkward shoe.”
Instant she rose and seiz'd the light,
“'Tis time,” she said, “to say good night.”
“Good-night,” in rapture he repeated,
And thus his hurrying hostess greeted.
“But ere you go, O let me sip Th'ambrosial sweetness of your lip!”
One warm salute he stole—no more, Though he attempted half a score:
But she her open hands applied To his lank cheeks on either side,
Then gave his ears a wringing pull,
Twitch'd his long nose, and rapp'd his scull,
Turn'd his fine wig all o'er and o'er,
And brought the hinder part before;
Blew out the light, and off she went, As if on bitter vengeance bent.
But Ma'am said nought—though that's consent,
He thought, if but the adage old Does a decided truth unfold;
At least he chose thus to infer And be self-love's interpreter:
Though soon this charm the lady broke,
And thus with serious aspect spoke.
“The dream in which your fancies shine
Will never be a dream of mine,
No ne'er again my heart will prove The pleasures or the pains of love;
Whether 'tis in the heart or liver, I defy Cupid and his quiver,
Though I may not disdain the hour
Which bears me into Hymen's bower,
But then it will be reason's care To lead me as a votary there;
And all that I shall look to find Will be the husband of my mind.
Or be he fat, or be he thin, Whether his long and pointed chin
Appears as if it meant to rest Upon the cushion of his chest,
Or if his prolongated nose
Should guard his grinning mouth from blows,
Whether the one or t'other eye Or both indeed should look awry,
299
Which will my inclinations move To join in pure seraphic love.”
The Doctor wonder'd at the whim, But it might be a hint to him;
So, on his steady purpose bent, He still pursued his argument.
—He reason'd long, he reason'd deep, He reason'd till she fell asleep:
He saw indeed her eyes were clos'd,
Though he ne'er fancied that she dos'd,
But thought she took this blindfold course
To give attention greater force.
The tea and rattling china's sound,
Now 'woke her from her sleep profound;
But 'twas again to hear him prove,
What ancient bards had sung of love,
And what philosophers had wrote,
He did not fail with warmth to quote:
The subject was not of her chusing,
But still she found the sage amusing:
Science and wit he did combine, 'Till the turret-clock struck nine,
When there appear'd the ev'ning wine,
With season'd sandwiches to boot, That would the nicest palate suit.
—To the Muse it is not known Whether it were from frolic done,
The Doctor's high-flown thoughts to quicken,
And cause the evening plot to thicken,
But the round tray did not resort To the dull flow of humble port,
Inspiring champagne, sparkling, bright,
Was the rich order of the night,
When Syntax, having wet his whistle,
Seiz'd on the high-wrought, fam'd epistle
Which Sappho to her Phaon wrote; A poem far too long to quote,
But, mov'd by the impassion'd verse
Thus did the lover's pains rehearse,
Or whether the enliv'ning juice Had made his spirits too profuse,
The widow felt the gay divine Dispos'd to act the libertine;
And therefore thought it time to rule His wilfulness to play the fool.
“Doctor, you just now talk'd of livers,
Of bleeding hearts and Cupid's quivers;
But you would wish me to suppose Love makes his entry at the toes,
Or wherefore do you thus incline To let your broad foot press on mine.
For shame, Sir, you who court the Graces!
Your feet are in improper places;
Why, my good friend, it is most shocking,
You'll rub the blue, Sir, off my stocking.
Susan, I'm sure, will look askew, If on the clocks she chance to view
The symptoms of your awkward shoe.”
Instant she rose and seiz'd the light,
“'Tis time,” she said, “to say good night.”
“Good-night,” in rapture he repeated,
And thus his hurrying hostess greeted.
“But ere you go, O let me sip Th'ambrosial sweetness of your lip!”
One warm salute he stole—no more, Though he attempted half a score:
But she her open hands applied To his lank cheeks on either side,
300
Twitch'd his long nose, and rapp'd his scull,
Turn'd his fine wig all o'er and o'er,
And brought the hinder part before;
Blew out the light, and off she went, As if on bitter vengeance bent.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |