The Borough. Letter XI: Inns
All the comforts of life in a Tavern are known,
'Tis his home who possesses not one of his own;
And to him who has rather too much of that one,
'Tis the house of a friend where he's welcome to
run;
The instant you enter my door you're my Lord,
With whose taste and whose pleasure I'm proud to
accord,
And the louder you call, and the longer you stay,
The more I am happy to serve and obey.
To the house of a friend if you're pleased to
retire,
You must all things admit, you must all tilings
admire;
You must pay with observance the price of your
treat,
You must eat what is praised, and must praise what
you eat,
But here you may come, and no tax we require,
You may loudly condemn what you greatly admire;
You may growl at our wishes and pains to excel,
And may snarl at the rascals who please you so
well.
At your wish we attend, and confess that your
speech
On the nation's affairs might the minister teach;
His views you may blame, and his measures oppose,
There's no Tavern-treason--you're under the Rose;
Should rebellions arise in your own little state,
With me you may safely their consequence wait;
To recruit your lost spirits 'tis prudent to come,
And to fly to a friend when the devil's at home.
That I've faults is confess'd; but it won't be
denied,
'Tis my interest the faults of my neighbours to
hide;
If I've sometimes lent Scandal occasion to prate,
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poem by George Crabbe
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