THERE is a garden in her face   Where roses and white lilies blow; 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 bows do stand, Threat'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.