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These miracles we did; but now alas, |
All measure, and all language, I should passe, |
Should I tell what a miracle she was. |
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The Dampe. |
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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 me, and so preferre |
Your murder, to the name of Massacre. |
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Poore victories; but if you dare be brave, |
And pleasure in your conquest have, |
First kill th'enormous Gyant, your Distaine, |
And let the enchantresse Honor, next be slaine, |
And like a Goth and Vandall rise, |
Deface Records, and Histories |
Of your owne arts and triumphs over men, |
And without such advantage kill me then. |
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For I could muster up, as well as you |
My Gyants, and my Witches too, |
Which are vast, Constancy, and Secretnesse, |
But these I neither look for nor professe, |
Kill me as Woman, let me die
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[CW: As] |