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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.
The Dampe.
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.
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.
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

[CW: As]