The Libertine

A THOUSAND martyrs I have made,

  All sacrificed to my desire,

A thousand beauties have betray'd

  That languish in resistless fire:

The untamed heart to hand I brought,

And fix'd the wild and wand'ring thought.

I never vow'd nor sigh'd in vain,

  But both, tho' false, were well received;

The fair are pleased to give us pain,

  And what they wish is soon believed:

And tho' I talk'd of wounds and smart,

Love's pleasures only touch'd 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.