CHERRY RIPE. BY THOMAS CAMPION.
Reading edition
There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies blow, 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 enclose. Of orient pearl a double row, Which, when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds 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 brows like bended bows do stand, Threat’ning with piercing frowns to kill All that approach with eye or hand These sacred cherries to come nigh, Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry.