Upon a FAVOUR offered

Celia, too late you would repent: The off'ring all your Store, Is now but like a Pardon sent To One that's dead before.

While at the first you cruel prov'd, And grant the Bliss too late; You hinder'd me of One I lov'd, To give me One I hate.

I thought you innocent, as fair, When first my Court I made; But when your Falshoods plain appear, My Love no longer stay'd.

Your Bounty of those Favours shown, Whose Worth your first deface; Is melting valu'd Medals down, And giving us the Brass.

O! since the thing we beg's a Toy, That's priz'd by Love alone, Why cannot Women grant the Joy, Before our Love is gone?