FABLE LIII. The Miss:
Or, The Sponge squeez'd.
A
Lady of the Town, whose Wheedling Art
Had made a Breach in a young Captain's Heart;
As Conqu'rors, of the Towns they Storm, dispose,
Plunder'd her Slave of all he had to lose:
The greedy Wretch scarce left him worth a Groat,
Except a Cloak to hide his shabby Coat;
Yet he her Pris'ner at Discretion liv'd,
Pleas'd with the Fate at which he shou'd have griev'd.
At last, the Time for brisk Campaign was come,
And he (sad Mortal) must attend the Drum;
Tho' with Reluctance, that he shou'd forego
A Thing as Noisie, and as Hollow too.
Away he sail'd with next presenting Wind,
But left his Heart (if he had one) behind.
The Jilt, when she perceiv'd him past Retrieve,
Did with a more than common Sorrow grieve.
Her Consorts ask'd her why she Wept so sore,
Who never had appear'd so True before?
Ah! she reply'd, My very Heart is broke,
To think that I have lost—his Scarlet Cloak.
The MORAL.
‘Insatiate Jilts, for mercenary Ends,
‘With Shews of Love, Cajole their Cully'd Friends;
‘'Till they the Substance of their Pockets drain,
‘And then the Sponges they have squeez'd, disdain.
‘Curs'd is the Wretch that on their Faith relies,
‘Who, only for the Gifts, the Giver prise.
