A Thousand Martyrs

A thousand martyrs I have made,

All sacrific’d to my desire;

A thousand beauties have betray’d,

That languish in resistless fire.

The untam’d heart to hand I brought,

And fixed the wild and wandering thought.


I never vow’d nor sigh’d in vain

But both, tho’ false, were well receiv’d.

The fair are pleas’d to give us pain,

And what they wish is soon believ’d.

And tho’ I talk’d 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

Despis’d the fools that whine for love.

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