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.