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...THE MILKMAID'S SONG by SYDNEY THOMPSON DOBELL ON AN INVITATION TO THE UNITED STATES by THOMAS HARDY THE KING'S DAUGHTER by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE THE SURF by JURGIS BALTRUSHAITIS PSALM 100 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE LINES TO GRIEF by ANN ELIZA BLEECKER A DIALOGUE BETWEEN HOM-VEG AND BALLURE'S RIVER by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |