There is a garden in her face,
Where roses and white lilies grow.
A heavenly paradise in 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 enclose
Of oriental pearls a double row,
Which, when her lovely laughter shows,
They look like rosebuds filled with snow.
Yet them no peer or prince may 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 approach with eye or hand
Those sacred cherries to come nigh,
Till cherry ripe themselves do cry.