  There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that 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 no peer nor prince may 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 approach with eye or hand, These sacred cherries to come nigh, —Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry! Anon. |
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