Cherry-Ripe

by Thomas Campion

There is a garden in her face
   Where roses and white lilies blow;
A heavenly paradise is that place,
   Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow;
There cherries grow that 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 fill’d 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 approach with eye or hand
These sacred cherries to come nigh,
— Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!