Aphra Behn (1640–1689)

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 fix’d 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 pleasure 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 heaven of joy;

And while I thus at random rove

Despise the fools that whine for love.