Campion, Thomas: The Garden

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.           

These 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 rosebuds filled 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 bows do stand,      

Threatening with piercing frowns to kill   

All that attempt with eye or hand               

Those sacred cherries to come nigh,         

Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.