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. Oh, How the Hand the Lover Ought to Prize
2. Epitaph on the Tombstone of a Child, the Last of Seven that Died Before
3. To Lysander
4. Angellica’s Lament
5. The Disappointment

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