In ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality. It happened on a winter night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguised in tattered habits, went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the strollers' canting strain, They begged from door to door in vain; Tried every tone might pity win, But not a soul would let them in.
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