There is a Garden in Her Face

There is a garden in her faceWhere roses and white lilies grow;A heav'nly paradise is that placeWherein all pleasant fruits do flow.There cherries grow which none may buyTill "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Those cherries fairly do encloseOf 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 killAll that attempt, with eye or handThose sacred cherries to come nighTill "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.