Classic Poem

Fair Canace this little tomb doth hide,
Who only seven Decembers told and died.
O cruelty! O sin! yet no man here
Must for so short a life let fall a tear;
Than death the kind was worse, what did infect
First seiz'd her mouth, and spoil'd her sweet aspect:
A horrid ill her kisses bit away,
And gave her almost lipless to the clay.
If Destiny so swift a flight did will her,
It might have found some other way to kill her;
But Death first struck her dumb, in haste to have her,
Lest her sweet tongue should force the Fates to save her.