by Aphrah Behn
A thousand Martyrs have I made,
All sacrific’d to my desire;
A thousand Beauties have betray’d,
That language in resistless Fire.
The untarri’d Heart to hand I brought,
And fixt the wild and wandring Thought.
I never vow’d nor sigh’d in vain
But both, thô false, were well receiv’d.
The Fair are pleas’d to give us Pain,
And what they wish is soon believ’d.
And thô I talked of Wounds and Smart,
Loves Pleasures only toucht my Heart.
Alone the Glory and the Spoil
I always Laughing bore away;
The Triumphs, without Pain or Toil,
Without the Hell, the Heav’n of Joy.
And while I thus at random rove
Despise the Fools that whine for Love.