London Taverns. TAVERN SIGNS. I'M amused at the signs, As I pass through the town, The Leg and Seven Stars, The Shovel and Boot. British Apollo, 1707. THE TABARD INN. EFELLE, that, in that seson on a day, BEFE In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, In felawship, and pilgrimes were they alle, And wel we weren esed atte beste. And shortly, whan the sonne was gon to reste, And made forword erly for to rise, Geoffrey Chaucer. LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN. NOULS of poets dead and gone, SOULS What Elysium have ye known, I have heard that on a day To a sheepskin gave the story, And pledging with contented smack The Mermaid in the Zodiac. Souls of poets dead and gone, What Elysium have ye known, Happy field or mossy cavern, Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? John Keats. THE SUN, THE DOG, THE TRIPLE TUN. ODE TO BEN JONSON. Ан Ben! Say how or when Shall we, thy guests, Meet at those lyric feasts, Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun: Where we such clusters had As made us nobly wild, not mad; Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine. My Ben! Or come again, Or send to us Thy wit's great overplus; But teach us yet Wisely to husband it, Lest we that talent spend: And having once brought to an end That precious stock, the store Of such a wit the world should have no more. Robert Herrick. THE MERMAID. WHAT things have we seen Done at the Mermaid! heard words that have been As if that every one from whence they came And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life; that when there hath been thrown Wit able enough to justify the town For three days past, wit that might warrant be For the whole city to talk foolishly Till that were cancelled; and when that was gone, We left an air behind us, which alone Was able to make the two next companies (Right witty, though but downright fools) more wise. Francis Beaumont. WHER THE RED LION, DRURY LANE. HERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, Where Calvert's butt and Parson's black champagne The Muse found Scroggen stretched beneath a rug. Oliver Goldsmith. THE COCK. WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE. 0 PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock, How goes the time? "T is five o'clock. Go fetch a pint of port: But let it not be such as that You set before chance-comers, But such whose father-grape grew fat On Lusitanian summers. No vain libation to the Muse, Nor add and alter, many times, I pledge her, and she comes and dips These favored lips of mine; Until the charm have power to make New lifeblood warm the bosom, And barren commonplaces break In full and kindly blossom. |