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Poem	When I am dead, and doctors know not why, And my friends' curiosity Will have me cut up to survey each part,— When they shall find your picture in my heart, You think a sudden damp of love Will through all their senses move, And work on them as me, and so prefer Your murder to the name of massacre. Poor victories! But if you dare be brave, And pleasure in your conquest have, First kill th' enormous giant, your Disdain, And let th' enchantress Honour next be slain, And like a Goth and Vandal rise, Deface records and histories Of your own arts and triumphs over men, And, without such advantage, kill me then. For I could muster up as well as you My giants, and my witches too, Which are vast Constancy and Secretness; But these I neither look for nor profess. Kill me as woman, let me die As a mere man; do you but try Your passive valour, and you shall find then, Naked you have odds enough of any man.
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