She had not broke her fast that day;
His worship, tho’, with plenty bless’d,
Knew how to pity the distress’d;
A grain of corn to her was gold,
And Heav’n would yield him fifty-fold.”
The Ant beheld her wretched plight,
Nor seem’d unfeeling at the sight;
Yet, still inquisitive to know
How she became reduc’d so low,
Asked her—we’ll e’en suppose in rhyme—