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 |  |
Ye Courtesies of life, all hail! Whether along the peaceful vale,
Where the thatch'd cot alone is seen, The humble mansion of the green,
Or in the city's crowded way, Man—mortal man, is doom'd to stray;
You give to joy an added charm, And woe of half its pangs disarm.
How much in every state he owes To what kind Courtesy bestows;
To that benign, engaging art Which decorates the human heart,
And, free from jealousy and strife, Gilds all the charities of life.
To ev'ry act it gives a grace; It adds a smile to ev'ry face;
And Goodness' self we better see When dress'd by gentle Courtesy.
Thus Syntax, as the house he sought,
Indulg'd the grateful, pleasing thought;
And soon he step'd the threshold o'er,
Where the good Farmer went before:
Plenty appear'd, and many a guest Attended on the welcome feast.
The Doctor then, with solemn face, Proceeded to the appointed place,
And, in due form, pronounc'd the grace.
That thankful ceremony done, The fierce attack was soon begun;
While meat and pudding, fowl and fish,
All vanish'd from each ample dish.
The dinner o'er, the bowl appear'd;
Th'enliv'ning draughts the spirits cheer'd;
Nor did the pleasant Doctor fail, Between the cups of foaming ale,
To gain the laugh by many a tail.
But it so hap'd—among the rest— The Farmer's Landlord was a guest;
A buckish blade, who kept a horse, To try his fortune on the course;
Was famous for his fighting cocks,
And his staunch pack to chase the fox:
Indeed, could he a booby bite,
He'd play at cards throughout the night;
Nor was he without hopes to get Syntax to make some silly bet.
“I never bet,” the Doctor said,
While a deep frown his thoughts betray'd:
“Your gold I do not wish to gain, And mine shall in my purse remain:
No tempting card, no gambling art, Shall make it from my pocket start.
Gaming, my worthy Sir, I hate; It neither suits my means nor state:
'Tis the worst passion, I protest,
That's known to haunt the human breast!
Of all vile habitudes the worst; The most delusive and accurst:
And, if you please, I'll lay before you A very melancholy story;
Such as, I think, will wring your heart;
And wound you in the tend'rest part;
That will in striking colours show The biting pangs—the bitter woe,
That do, too oft, from gaming flow.”
“Nay,” said the Squire, “I don't deny I often like my luck to try;
And no one here, I'm sure, will say That when I lose I do not pay:
But as you think it such a sin Pray try to cure me—and begin.”
Where the thatch'd cot alone is seen, The humble mansion of the green,
Or in the city's crowded way, Man—mortal man, is doom'd to stray;
You give to joy an added charm, And woe of half its pangs disarm.
How much in every state he owes To what kind Courtesy bestows;
To that benign, engaging art Which decorates the human heart,
And, free from jealousy and strife, Gilds all the charities of life.
To ev'ry act it gives a grace; It adds a smile to ev'ry face;
64
Thus Syntax, as the house he sought,
Indulg'd the grateful, pleasing thought;
And soon he step'd the threshold o'er,
Where the good Farmer went before:
Plenty appear'd, and many a guest Attended on the welcome feast.
The Doctor then, with solemn face, Proceeded to the appointed place,
And, in due form, pronounc'd the grace.
That thankful ceremony done, The fierce attack was soon begun;
While meat and pudding, fowl and fish,
All vanish'd from each ample dish.
The dinner o'er, the bowl appear'd;
Th'enliv'ning draughts the spirits cheer'd;
Nor did the pleasant Doctor fail, Between the cups of foaming ale,
To gain the laugh by many a tail.
But it so hap'd—among the rest— The Farmer's Landlord was a guest;
A buckish blade, who kept a horse, To try his fortune on the course;
Was famous for his fighting cocks,
And his staunch pack to chase the fox:
Indeed, could he a booby bite,
He'd play at cards throughout the night;
Nor was he without hopes to get Syntax to make some silly bet.
“I never bet,” the Doctor said,
While a deep frown his thoughts betray'd:
“Your gold I do not wish to gain, And mine shall in my purse remain:
No tempting card, no gambling art, Shall make it from my pocket start.
Gaming, my worthy Sir, I hate; It neither suits my means nor state:
'Tis the worst passion, I protest,
That's known to haunt the human breast!
Of all vile habitudes the worst; The most delusive and accurst:
And, if you please, I'll lay before you A very melancholy story;
Such as, I think, will wring your heart;
And wound you in the tend'rest part;
That will in striking colours show The biting pangs—the bitter woe,
That do, too oft, from gaming flow.”
“Nay,” said the Squire, “I don't deny I often like my luck to try;
And no one here, I'm sure, will say That when I lose I do not pay:
But as you think it such a sin Pray try to cure me—and begin.”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |