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 I 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.