Cherry-Ripe
THERE is a garden in her faceWhere 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 encloseOf orient pearl a double row,Which when her lovely laughter shows,They look like rosebuds filled with snow:Yet them no peer nor prince may 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 approach with eye or handThese sacred cherries to come nigh,Till Cherry-Ripe themselves do cry!
THOMAS NASH 1567–1601