CElia, too late you wou’d repent:
The offering 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 hindred 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 these 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 the love is gone.