There
is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies blow,
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasnt fruits do flow,
There
cherries grow which none may buy
Till
"Cherry - ripe" themselves do cry.
Those
cherries fairly do enclose,
Of orient pearls a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose - buds 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.
