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Behold whiles
she before the altar stands
Hearing the holy priest
that to her speakes
And blesseth her with his two
happy hands,
How the red roses flush vp in her
cheekes,
And the pure snow with goodly vermill
stayne,
Like crimsin dyde in grayne,
That euen
th'Angels which continually,
About the sacred Altare
doe remaine,
Forget their seruice and about her fly,
Ofte peeping in her face that seemes more fayre,
The more they on it stare.
But her sad eyes still
fastened on the ground,
Are gouerned with goodly
modesty,
That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry,
Which may let in a little thought vnsownd,
Why
blush ye loue to giue to me your hand,
The pledge of
all our band,
Sing ye sweet Angels Alleluya sing,
That all the woods may answere and your eccho ring.
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