Thomas Campion


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.