Where'er his fancy bids him roam,
In ev'ry Inn he finds a home--
. . . .
read more

Where'er his fancy bids him roam,
In ev'ry Inn he finds a home--
. . . .
Will not an Inn his cares beguile,
Where on each face he sees a smile?

He who has not been at a tavern knows not what a paradise it is.
O holy tavern! O read more

He who has not been at a tavern knows not what a paradise it is.
O holy tavern! O miraculous tavern!--holy, because no carking
cares are there, nor weariness, nor pain; and miraculous, because
of the spits, which themselves turn round and round!

Where you have friends you should not go to inns.

Where you have friends you should not go to inns.

He had scarcely gone a short league, when Fortune, that was
conducting his affairs from good to better, discovered read more

He had scarcely gone a short league, when Fortune, that was
conducting his affairs from good to better, discovered to him the
road, where he also espied an Inn. Sancho positively maintained
it was an Inn, and his master that it was a castle; and the
dispute lasted so long that they arrived there before it was
determined.

You may go to Carlisle's and to Almanac's too;
And I'll give you my Head if you find such read more

You may go to Carlisle's and to Almanac's too;
And I'll give you my Head if you find such a Host,
For Coffee, Tea, Chocolate, Butter, or Toast;
How he welcomes at once all the World and his Wife,
And how civil to Folks he ne'er saw in his Life.

Whoe'er has travel'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he read more

Whoe'er has travel'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome, at an inn.

Along the varying road of life,
In calm content, in toil or strife,
At morn or noon, read more

Along the varying road of life,
In calm content, in toil or strife,
At morn or noon, by night or day,
As time conducts him on his way,
How oft doth man, by care oppressed,
Find in an Inn a place of rest.

What care if the day
Be turned to gray,
What care if the night come soon!
read more

What care if the day
Be turned to gray,
What care if the night come soon!
We may choose the pace
Who bow for grace,
At the Inn of the Silver Moon.

Now musing o'er the changing scene
Farmers behind the tavern screen
Collect; with elbows idly press'd
read more

Now musing o'er the changing scene
Farmers behind the tavern screen
Collect; with elbows idly press'd
On hob, reclines the corner's guest,
Reading the news to mark again
The bankrupt lists or price of grain.
Puffing the while his red-tipt pipe
He dreams o'er troubles nearly ripe,
Yet, winter's leisure to regale,
Hopes better times, and sips his ale.