412. 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,	5
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:	10
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,	15
Without the hell the heaven of joy;
And while I thus at random rove
Despise the fools that whine for love.