The Grasshopper

But ah, the sickle! golden ears are cropped; Ceres and Bacchus bid good night;

Sharp frosty fingers all your flowers have topped,

And what scythes spared, winds shave off quite.

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 fill'd with snow.
Yet them nor Peer nor Prince can buy

Till Cherry ripe themselves do cry.

Cherry Ripe

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