A Thousand Martyrs

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.