A Garden in her Face.
Reading edition
There is a garden in her face, Where roses and white lilies grow; A heavenly paradise is that place, Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow; There cherries grow that none may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry. Those cherries fairly do inclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which, when her lively laughter shows, They look like rose-buds filled with snow; Yet these no peer nor prince may buy, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
Her eyes like angels' watch there still, Her brows like bended bows do stand, Threatening with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand, Those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till cherry-ripe themselves do cry.
