There is a Garden in Her Face

by Thomas Campion

   There is a garden in her face
Where roses and white lilies grow;
   A heav'nly 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 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 kill
   All that attempt, with eye or hand
   Those sacred cherries to come nigh
   Till "Cherry-ripe" themselves do cry.