There is a garden in her face,
Where roses and white lilies grow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.
There cherries grow, which none may buy
Till Cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairly'do enclose
Of orient pearl a double row;
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose buds fill'd with snow.
Yet them nor peer nor prince can buy,
Till Cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels watch them still;
Her brows like bended brows do stand,
Treat'ning with piercing frowns to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till Cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
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