There is a garden in her face,
where roses and white lilies grow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits so grow;
There cherries grow that none may buy
Till 'cherry ripe' themselves do cry.
Those cherries fairy do enclose
Of oriental pearl a double row,
Which, when her lovely laughter shows,
they look like rosebuds 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 bows like bended bows do stand,
Threatening with piercing frowns to kill
all that approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till 'cherry ripe' themselves do cry.
Thomas Campion
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