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 |  |
The Doctor, on the sofa laid, A solemn train of thought betray'd.
It was not that he suffer'd pain, That he could smile at and disdain,
But calm reproaches play'd their part In the recesses of his heart:
And when the 'Squire began to chide, Syntax, with serious air replied:
“I thank you for your kind intent, But I've deserv'd my punishment.
I have not broke a moral duty In visiting this furious beauty:
But still it was a boyish trick Which now I think on't makes me sick.
Though scarce four months have dragg'd away,
Since I wept through the dismal day,
When my heart's darling and its pride, In all her glow of virtue died,
I sought, as I shall ne'er forget, To play the fool with a coquette.
When I reflect, best shade, on thee, My lost, lamented Dorothy;
When I but think how much I ow'd To that affection you bestow'd;
When by the fondest union known, You but so lately were my own;
By what dark witchcraft was I brought
To cast my darling from my thought!
If that same crape which decks my head,
In honour of the honour'd dead,
Could but speak now, 'twould send a volley
Of loud reproaches at my folly.”
It was not that he suffer'd pain, That he could smile at and disdain,
But calm reproaches play'd their part In the recesses of his heart:
And when the 'Squire began to chide, Syntax, with serious air replied:
“I thank you for your kind intent, But I've deserv'd my punishment.
I have not broke a moral duty In visiting this furious beauty:
But still it was a boyish trick Which now I think on't makes me sick.
Though scarce four months have dragg'd away,
Since I wept through the dismal day,
When my heart's darling and its pride, In all her glow of virtue died,
I sought, as I shall ne'er forget, To play the fool with a coquette.
When I reflect, best shade, on thee, My lost, lamented Dorothy;
When I but think how much I ow'd To that affection you bestow'd;
When by the fondest union known, You but so lately were my own;
By what dark witchcraft was I brought
To cast my darling from my thought!
If that same crape which decks my head,
In honour of the honour'd dead,
Could but speak now, 'twould send a volley
Of loud reproaches at my folly.”
| The three tours of Doctor Syntax | |