The Garden

THERE is a garden in her face, where roses and white lilies grow;

A heavenly paradise is that place, wherein all pleasant fruits do flow.

These cherries grow which none may buy,  till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

which when her lovely laughter shows,  they look like rosebuds 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,          

threatening with piercing frowns to kill all that attempt with eye or hand

those sacred cherries to come nigh, Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.

Thomas Campion.

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