Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow.
There Cherries grow, which none may buy,
Till Cherry Ripe themselves doe cry.
Those Cherries fayrely doe enclose
Of Orient Pearle a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter showes,
They look like Rose-buds filled with snow.
Yet them nor Peere nor Prince can buy,
Till Cherry Ripe themselves doe cry.
Her Eyes like Angels watch them still;