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.

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?

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.

The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day. Now spurs the lated traveller apace To gain the timely inn, and near approaches The subject of our watch.

Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn but I shall have my pocket picked?

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!