There is a garden in her face
     Where roses and white lilies blow,
A heavenly paradise is that place,
     Wherein all pleasnt fruits do flow,
          There cherries grow which none may buy
          Till "Cherry - ripe" themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do enclose,
     Of orient pearls a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter shows,
     They look like rose - buds 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.