Johnson.    

	Now spurs the lated traveler apace
	To gain the timely inn.

Shakespeare.    

	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.

Shenstone.    

	Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,
	Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye,
	Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,
	Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil retired,
	Where village statesmen talk’d with looks profound,
	And news much older than their ale went round.

Goldsmith.