text: There is a garden in her face
     Where roses and white lilies blow;
  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 rose-buds filled 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 attempt with eye or hand
        Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
        Till Cherry-ripe themselves do cry.