There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow;
  A heav'nly 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 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.