There is a Garden in her face,
 Where Roses and white Lilies grow.
 A heav'ly paradice is that place,
 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 looke like Rose-buds fill'd with snowe.
 Yet them nor Peere, nor Prince can buy,
 Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.

 Her Eyes like Angels watch them still;
 Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand,
 Threatning with piercing frownes to kill
 All that attempt with eye or hand
 Those sacred Cherries to come nigh,
 Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.
 

Thomas Campion : Rose-cheeked Laura

   Rose-cheek'd Laura, come,
Sing thou smoothly with thy beauty's
Silent music, either other
   Sweetly gracing.

  Lovely forms do flow
From concent divinely framed;
Heav'n is music, and thy beauty's
    Birth is heavenly.

  These dull notes we sing
Discords need for helps to grace them;
Only beauty purely loving
     Knows no discord,

  But still moves delight,
Like clear springs renew'd by flowing,
Ever perfect, ever in them-
     Selves eternal.