[ CHERRY RIPE]
There is a garden in her face Where 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 enclose Of orient pearl a double row, Which when her lovely laughter shows, They look like rose-buds fill’d 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 kill All that approach with eye or hand, These sacred cherries to come nigh, —Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry!
Anon.
[ MORNING]
Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day, With night we banish sorrow, Sweet air blow soft, mount Lark aloft To give my Love good-morrow. Wings from the wind, to please her mind, Notes from the Lark I’ll borrow; Bird prune thy wing, Nightingale sing, To give my Love good-morrow; To give my Love good-morrow Notes from them all I’ll borrow.
Wake from thy nest, Robin Red-breast, Sing birds in every furrow, And from each hill, let music shrill, Give my fair Love good-morrow: Black-bird and thrush, in every bush, Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow! You pretty elves, amongst yourselves Sing my fair Love good-morrow. To give my Love good-morrow Sing birds in every furrow.