Poem by Aphra Behn

* * *

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 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. 

1. On the Death of E. Waller, Esq.
2. The Willing Mistriss
3. The First Cypher
4. The Permission
5. Song (Cease, cease, Aminta, to complain)

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