Written at an Inn at Henley

To thee, fair Freedom! I retire From flatt'ry, cards, and dice, and din; Nor art thou found in mansions higher Than the low cot or humble Inn.

'Tis here with boundless pow'r I reign, And ev'ry health which I begin Converts dull Port to bright Champaigne; Such freedom crowns it at an Inn.

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate! I fly from Falsehood's specious grin! Freedom I love, and form I hate, And chuse my lodgings at an Inn.

Here, Waiter! take my sordid ore, Which lackies else might hope to win; It buys, what courts have not in store, It buys me freedom at an Inn.

Whoe'er has travell'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.