CHERRY-RIPE

by: Thomas Campion (1567?-1619)

HERE 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 pearls 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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