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 Syntax was, it might be thought,
To serious contemplation wrought
By all he had so lately seen, Nay what he had so lately been,
That there was matter to supply Twelve miles a good soliloquy.
But he wish'd not his mind to fix On the strange widow and her tricks:
For though, as he employ'd the key, T'unlock the gates of memory,
Some motley whimsies might appear,
Which had found a sly corner there,
And would awake a sense of mirth;
Yet he must feel that they gave birth
To certain interludes beside, Which serv'd to wound his solemn pride.
For, though so pure might be his aim,
Reflection gave him much to blame;
And 'stead of furnishing content,
Still conscience whisper'd him—Repent.
Thus in the struggle to forget The being caught within the net,
Where nought that he had hop'd was gain'd,
Nor e'en the slightest good obtain'd;
Of all his usual life bereft, He neither look'd to right nor left,
Nor down to earth, nor towards the spheres,
But onward 'tween his horse's ears
Where to a point his eyes he brought,
Which though wide open, yet saw nought;
A situation often known To thought, when it is left alone.
At length the pensive Doctor doz'd,
And both his eyes were quickly clos'd;
For a soft, all-subduing sleep Did on his senses gently creep,
And Pat, a faithful servant he, Did on this sleepy point agree.
To serious contemplation wrought
By all he had so lately seen, Nay what he had so lately been,
That there was matter to supply Twelve miles a good soliloquy.
But he wish'd not his mind to fix On the strange widow and her tricks:
For though, as he employ'd the key, T'unlock the gates of memory,
Some motley whimsies might appear,
Which had found a sly corner there,
And would awake a sense of mirth;
Yet he must feel that they gave birth
To certain interludes beside, Which serv'd to wound his solemn pride.
For, though so pure might be his aim,
Reflection gave him much to blame;
And 'stead of furnishing content,
Still conscience whisper'd him—Repent.
Thus in the struggle to forget The being caught within the net,
Where nought that he had hop'd was gain'd,
Nor e'en the slightest good obtain'd;
Of all his usual life bereft, He neither look'd to right nor left,
Nor down to earth, nor towards the spheres,
But onward 'tween his horse's ears
Where to a point his eyes he brought,
Which though wide open, yet saw nought;
A situation often known To thought, when it is left alone.
At length the pensive Doctor doz'd,
And both his eyes were quickly clos'd;
For a soft, all-subduing sleep Did on his senses gently creep,
And Pat, a faithful servant he, Did on this sleepy point agree.
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |