Rough with black tempests! How accuse
Capricious Gods, and broken vows!
Fond dupe! he hopes—so sweet that kiss—
Thou’lt still be witching, still be his!
What treacherous gales beset his way,
Ah! little knows he! Hapless they,
Who ne’er thy faithless smiles have tried!
—That I have ’scaped the whelming tide,
A tablet and my dripping vest,
Hung up in Neptune’s fane, attest.—Ed.]