Cherry-Ripe

Thomas Campion

There is a garden in her face,

Where roses and white lilies grow;

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 rosebuds filled with snow.

Yet them nor 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,

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.