MikeLigalig.com

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 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 fill'd 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 kill
   All that attempt with eye or hand
   Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
   Till 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.


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