Book XI, Epigram 92: Epitaphium Canaces

Sweet Canace lyes buryed in this Tombe,
On whom the seaventh Winter just hath come.
O mischief! Traveler why dost hast to weep?
We must not mourn life shortness now a sleep
This kinde of death was worse than death: Her face
The Pox consumed, and spoyl'd its tender grace,
Those cruel plagues her kisses eate and have,
Nor were her lips brought whole to the black Grave.
If the hard Fates could not admit of stay,
Me thinks they might have come some milder way,
But death made hast her pretty tongue to seize,
Least her sweet wods should meet the Destinies.