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. John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680 413. Return ABSENT from thee, I languish still; Then ask me not, When I return? The straying fool 'twill plainly kill To wish all day, all night to mourn. Dear, from thine arms then let me fly, That my fantastic mind may prove The torments it deserves to try, That tears my fix'd heart from my love. When, wearied with a world of woe, To thy safe bosom I retire, Where love, and peace, and truth does flow, May I contented there expire! Lest, once more wandering from that heaven, I fall on some base heart unblest; Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven-- And lose my everlasting rest. John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680 414. Love and Life ALL my past life is mine no more; The flying hours are gone, Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store By memory alone. The time that is to come is not; How can it then be mine? The present moment 's all my lot; And that, as fast as it is got, Phillis, is only thine. Then talk not of inconstancy, False hearts, and broken vows; If I by miracle can be This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that Heaven allows. John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680 415. Constancy I CANNOT change as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor swain that sighs for you For you alone was born. No, Phillis, no; your heart to move A surer way I'll try; And, to revenge my slighted love, Will still love on and die. When kill'd with grief Amyntas lies, And you to mind shall call The sighs that now unpitied rise, The tears that vainly fall-- That welcome hour, that ends this smart, Will then begin your pain; For such a faithful tender heart Can never break in vain. John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester. 1647-1680 416. To His Mistress (After Quarles) WHY dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye? Without thy light what light remains in me? Thou art my life; my way, my light 's in thee; I live, I move, and by thy beams I see. Thou art my life--if thou but turn away My life 's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way-- Without thee, Love, I travel not but stray.