Classic Poem

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 Disdaine,
And let th'enchantresse Honor, 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 Constancy, and Secretnesse,
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 then,
Naked you'have odds enough of any man.