The Dance of Life A Poem, by the author of "Doctor Syntax;%" [i.e. William Combe] Illustrated with coloured engravings, by Thomas Rowlandson |
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| VIII. |
 | CHAPTER IV. YOUTH. The Dance of Life |  |
Thus Harry soon assum'd the lead
In ev'ry Student-errant deed
Wrote Epigrams on Heads of Houses
And quizz'd the beauty of their Spouses.
Or if his Tutor's nose were long,
Made it the burthen of a song;
While at the Lectures he receiv'd
He look'd most grave, but never griev'd.
Yet, though in gamesome gusts of fun
He'd hoax a Don, or kick a Dun;
Would in the dark assail a Doctor,
And, by hard running, 'scape a Proctor;
Engage in Rows, which we must own,
Are not to sapping Students known;
Still, it was so ordain'd by Fate,
Harry was not a reprobate.
In all his freaks, nay, in his wine
A courtly grace was seen to shine,
Which often sav'd him when he swerv'd
From the harsh censure he deserv'd.
He never gam'd, nor did he swear;
Riot he would, but with an air,
That, somehow, fail'd not to impart
Th'excesses of a gen'rous heart.
If in a Bacchanalian Freak,
He did a Tradesman's windows break;
Content that the good folks were frighted,
A two-fold pay the loss requited:
He ne'er did mischief, but the morrow
Brought the remunerating sorrow.
When he was sick, or in foul weather,
He'd study for a week together;
Would trifle with th'Horatian lyre,
And call Apollo to inspire;
Nay, to deserve his chast'ning aid,
He'd change Old Port for Lemonade;
Or ask Thalia for a glee,
As he enjoy'd his evening Tea.
But, in these solitary hours,
When Reason re-assum'd its powers,
And the rude, boisterous, flattering crew,
Till he got well, had bid adieu,
His thoughts were not confin'd to verse:
For he could Cicero rehearse;
And, when it did his fancy please,
Would thunder forth Demosthenes;—
And well he could explain the page
Of Classic Lore to Tutor sage:
But the grave Lectures did not find
A resting-place in Harry's mind.
Frequent they were, but all in vain,
Though ever cloth'd in friendly strain,
And such as promis'd to impart
Their counsels to a feeling heart;
And so they might for one short hour,
But, in the next they lost their power.
These Lectures, no uncommon lot,
Were heard—remember'd—and forgot;
And now, at length, we'll give the last—
A specimen of many past.
In ev'ry Student-errant deed
107
And quizz'd the beauty of their Spouses.
Or if his Tutor's nose were long,
Made it the burthen of a song;
While at the Lectures he receiv'd
He look'd most grave, but never griev'd.
Yet, though in gamesome gusts of fun
He'd hoax a Don, or kick a Dun;
Would in the dark assail a Doctor,
And, by hard running, 'scape a Proctor;
Engage in Rows, which we must own,
Are not to sapping Students known;
Still, it was so ordain'd by Fate,
Harry was not a reprobate.
In all his freaks, nay, in his wine
A courtly grace was seen to shine,
Which often sav'd him when he swerv'd
From the harsh censure he deserv'd.
He never gam'd, nor did he swear;
Riot he would, but with an air,
108
Th'excesses of a gen'rous heart.
If in a Bacchanalian Freak,
He did a Tradesman's windows break;
Content that the good folks were frighted,
A two-fold pay the loss requited:
He ne'er did mischief, but the morrow
Brought the remunerating sorrow.
When he was sick, or in foul weather,
He'd study for a week together;
Would trifle with th'Horatian lyre,
And call Apollo to inspire;
Nay, to deserve his chast'ning aid,
He'd change Old Port for Lemonade;
Or ask Thalia for a glee,
As he enjoy'd his evening Tea.
But, in these solitary hours,
When Reason re-assum'd its powers,
And the rude, boisterous, flattering crew,
Till he got well, had bid adieu,
His thoughts were not confin'd to verse:
For he could Cicero rehearse;
109
Would thunder forth Demosthenes;—
And well he could explain the page
Of Classic Lore to Tutor sage:
But the grave Lectures did not find
A resting-place in Harry's mind.
Frequent they were, but all in vain,
Though ever cloth'd in friendly strain,
And such as promis'd to impart
Their counsels to a feeling heart;
And so they might for one short hour,
But, in the next they lost their power.
These Lectures, no uncommon lot,
Were heard—remember'd—and forgot;
And now, at length, we'll give the last—
A specimen of many past.
| CHAPTER IV. YOUTH. The Dance of Life | |