There is a Garden in Her Face

There is a garden in her face Where roses and white lilies grow; A heav'nly 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 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, 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.