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. 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. _169._ _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 framèd: Heaven 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. _Devotion_ _170._ _i_ Follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! Though thou be black as night, And she made all of light, Yet follow thy fair sun, unhappy shadow! Follow her, whose light thy light depriveth! Though here thou liv’st disgraced, And she in heaven is placed, Yet follow her whose light the world reviveth! Follow those pure beams, whose beauty burneth! That so have scorchèd thee As thou still black must be, Till her kind beams thy black to brightness turneth. Follow her, while yet her glory shineth! There comes a luckless night That will dim all her light; And this the black unhappy shade divineth. Follow still, since so thy fates ordainèd! The sun must have his shade, Till both at once do fade,-- The sun still proud, the shadow still disdainèd. _171._ _ii_ Follow your saint, follow with accents sweet! Haste you, sad notes, fall at her flying feet! There, wrapt in cloud of sorrow, pity move, And tell the ravisher of my soul I perish for her love: But if she scorns my never-ceasing pain, Then burst with sighing in her sight, and ne’er return again! All that I sung still to her praise did tend; Still she was first, still she my songs did end; Yet she my love and music both doth fly, The music that her echo is and beauty’s sympathy: Then let my notes pursue her scornful flight! It shall suffice that they were breathed and died for her delight. _172._ _Vobiscum est Iope_ When thou must home to shades of underground, And there arrived, a new admirèd guest, The beauteous spirits do engirt thee round, White Iope, blithe Helen, and the rest, To hear the stories of thy finish’d love From that smooth tongue whose music hell can move;