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.