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 |  |
“Whate'er of genius or of merit The child of labour may inherit,
They will not in this mortal state,
Or give him wealth, or make him great,
Unless that strange, capricious dame,
Whom Pagan poets Fortune name,
That unseen, ever active pow'r, Propitious, aids his toilsome hour.
Throughout my life I've struggled hard;
And what has been my lean reward?
What have I gain'd by learned lore, By deeply reading o'er and o'er,
What ev'ry ancient sage has writ, Renown'd for pure and Attic wit;
Or those rich volumes which dispense The strains of Roman eloquence?
No fav'ring patrons have I got, But just enough to boil the pot.
What though by toil and pain, I know
Where ev'ry Hebrew root doth grow,
And can each hidden truth descry From Genesis to Malachi;
Yet I have never been decreed To sheer the fleeces that I feed:
No, they enrich the idle dunce Who never saw his flock but once,
And meanly grudges e'en to spare My pittance for their weekly fare.
Have I made any real friends, By wasting eyes and candles' ends?
And though a good musician too, What did my fiddle ever do?
I sometimes might employ its pow'r To soothe an over anxious hour;
But though it with my temper suits, It never yet could soften brutes.
My sketching-pencil, too, is known In ev'ry house throughout the town;
For, to replace some horrid scrawl, My drawings hang on ev'ry wall:
And yet, 'tis true, as I'm a sinner, They seldom pay me with a dinner.
What do I get poor boys to teach? And drive in learning at the breech?
A task, which Lucian says, is given
As the worst punishment from Heaven.
While Fortune's boobies cut and carve,
I may be said to teach and starve;
Too happy, if, on Christmas-day, I've just enough the duns to pay.
Though sometimes I have almost swore
When, from the threshold of the door, My poverty repell'd the poor;
When the cask, empty'd of its ale, No more the thirsty could regale.
“At length the lucky moment came
To fill my purse and give me fame!
And, after all my labours past, Hope bids me look for rest at last.
For scarce had I one prosp'rous hour
Till Fortune bid me Write a Tour.
Oft have I said in words unkind, That strumpet Fortune's very blind!
But now I think the wench can see, Since she's become so kind to me.
To say the truth, I scarce believe The favours which I now receive:
In a Lord's house I take my rest, A welcome and an honour'd guest:
The favours on my Tour I found Are by his present kindness crown'd.
I'd heard indeed, that these same Lords
Were only friendly in their words;
But truth alone my patron moves,
Whose friendship ev'ry promise proves.”
They will not in this mortal state,
Or give him wealth, or make him great,
Unless that strange, capricious dame,
Whom Pagan poets Fortune name,
That unseen, ever active pow'r, Propitious, aids his toilsome hour.
Throughout my life I've struggled hard;
And what has been my lean reward?
What have I gain'd by learned lore, By deeply reading o'er and o'er,
What ev'ry ancient sage has writ, Renown'd for pure and Attic wit;
Or those rich volumes which dispense The strains of Roman eloquence?
No fav'ring patrons have I got, But just enough to boil the pot.
What though by toil and pain, I know
Where ev'ry Hebrew root doth grow,
And can each hidden truth descry From Genesis to Malachi;
Yet I have never been decreed To sheer the fleeces that I feed:
No, they enrich the idle dunce Who never saw his flock but once,
And meanly grudges e'en to spare My pittance for their weekly fare.
Have I made any real friends, By wasting eyes and candles' ends?
And though a good musician too, What did my fiddle ever do?
I sometimes might employ its pow'r To soothe an over anxious hour;
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My sketching-pencil, too, is known In ev'ry house throughout the town;
For, to replace some horrid scrawl, My drawings hang on ev'ry wall:
And yet, 'tis true, as I'm a sinner, They seldom pay me with a dinner.
What do I get poor boys to teach? And drive in learning at the breech?
A task, which Lucian says, is given
As the worst punishment from Heaven.
While Fortune's boobies cut and carve,
I may be said to teach and starve;
Too happy, if, on Christmas-day, I've just enough the duns to pay.
Though sometimes I have almost swore
When, from the threshold of the door, My poverty repell'd the poor;
When the cask, empty'd of its ale, No more the thirsty could regale.
“At length the lucky moment came
To fill my purse and give me fame!
And, after all my labours past, Hope bids me look for rest at last.
For scarce had I one prosp'rous hour
Till Fortune bid me Write a Tour.
Oft have I said in words unkind, That strumpet Fortune's very blind!
But now I think the wench can see, Since she's become so kind to me.
To say the truth, I scarce believe The favours which I now receive:
In a Lord's house I take my rest, A welcome and an honour'd guest:
The favours on my Tour I found Are by his present kindness crown'd.
I'd heard indeed, that these same Lords
Were only friendly in their words;
But truth alone my patron moves,
Whose friendship ev'ry promise proves.”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |