Beside the road a mansion stood,
Defended by a circling wood.
Hither, disguis'd, their steps they bend,
In hopes, perchance, to find a friend.
Nor vain their hope; for records say,
Worth ne'er from thence was turn'd away.
They urge the traveller's common chance,
And every piteous plea advance:
The artful tale that Wit had feign'd,
Admittance easy soon obtain'd.