A Thousand Martyrs

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A thousand martyrs I have made,
 All sacrificed to my desire;
A thousand beauties have betrayed,
 That languish in resistless fire.
The untamed heart to hand I brought,
And fixed the wild and wandering thought.

I never vowed nor sighed in vain
 But both, though false, were well received.
The fair are pleased to give us pain,
 And what they wish is soon believed.
And though I talked of wounds and smart,
Love’s pleasures only touched 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.

© Aphra Behn