The Tour of Doctoe Syntax, in Search of the Picturesque, a Poem. - Softcover

Combe, William

 
9781151130396: The Tour of Doctoe Syntax, in Search of the Picturesque, a Poem.

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Inhaltsangabe

This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1872. Excerpt: ... n mnjf'of t Jirtitnqttt. 241 And, after all my labours past, Hope bids me look for rest at last. For scarce had I one prosperous 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 honoured guest: The favours on my Tour I found Are by his present kindness crowned. I'd always heard that these same Lords Were only friendly in their words: Truth can alone my patron move, Whose generous deeds his promise prove." Thus Syntax did his feelings broach, As he reclined within a coach: For, pondering as he passed along, He was sore pummelled by the throng: Now by a porter's package greeted, Now on the pavement he was seated; While, deafened by a news-boy's din, A fruit-girl's barrow strikes his shin; And as his cautious course he guides, The passing elbows punch his sides: While a cart-wheel, with luckless spirt, Gives him a taste of London dirt: At length, to get in safety back, He sought the comforts of a Hack. His little journey at an end, The Doctor joined his noble friend: Together they in comfort dine, Then munched their cakes, and sipped their wine; When Syntax, briefly, thus displayed His parley with the man of trade:--"I owe unto your Lordship's name My future gains in gold and fame. My uncombed wig,--my suit of black, Which had grown rusty on my back, My grizly visage, pale and thin, My carcase, nought but bones and skin, Presented to the Tradesman's eye The ghastly form of Poverty: ISTor would he deign to cast a look Upon the pages of my book; But, with the fierceness of a Turk, In sorry terms reviled my work; And l...

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