When I am dead, and Doctors know not why, And my friends curiositie Will have me cut up to survay each part, When they shall finde your Picture in my heart, You thinke a sodaine dampe of love Will through all their senses move, And worke on them as mee, and so preferre Your murder, to the name of Massacre. Poore victories! But if you dare be brave, And pleasure in your conquest have, First kill th'enormous Gyant, your @3Disdaine@1, And let th'enchantresse @3Honor@1, next be slaine, And like a Goth and Vandall rize, Deface Records, and Histories Of your owne arts and triumphs over men, And without such advantage kill me then. For I could muster up as well as you My Gyants, and my Witches too, Which are vast @3Constancy@1, and @3Secretnesse@1, But these I neyther looke for, nor professe; Kill mee as Woman, let mee die As a meere man; doe you but try Your passive valor, and you shall finde than, In that you'have odds enough of any man. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FORECLOSURE by STERLING ALLEN BROWN WITH WHOM IS NO VARIABLENESS, NEITHER SHADOW OF TURNING' by ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH THE COASTERS by THOMAS FLEMING DAY A DECANTER OF MADEIRA, AGED 86, TO GEORGE BANCROFT, AGED 86 by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL THE BROKEN WATER WHEEL by GHALIB IBN RIBAH AL-HAJJAM A SPRING CAROL by ALFRED AUSTIN |