by John Donne

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 thorough 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.