THE DAMP.
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.



Source:
Donne, John. Poems of John Donne. vol I.
E. K. Chambers, ed.
London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1896. 67-68.





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