There is a garden in her face,
  Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heav'nly paradise is that place,
  Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow.
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 no peer nor prince may 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 approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh
Till "Cherry ripe", themselves do cry.