Cherry-Ripe
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 filled with snow;
        Yet them no 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.