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

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

Where you have friends you should not go to inns.

Where you have friends you should not go to inns.

The atmosphere
Breathes rest and comfort and the many chambers
Seem full of welcomes.

The atmosphere
Breathes rest and comfort and the many chambers
Seem full of welcomes.

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.

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.

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.

There is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so
much happiness is produced as by read more

There is nothing which has yet been contrived by man, by which so
much happiness is produced as by a good tavern of inn.

Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
read more

Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?