Thomas Campion (1567–1620)

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 that 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 may 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.