Cherry-Ripe, by 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 to flow;
There cherries grow which none may buy
Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.   Those cherries fairly do enclose
Or orient pearls a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow;
Yet them not 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. - Thomas Campion