Cherry-Ripe

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 filled with snow;

      Yet them no 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.