“Behold, whiles she before the Altar stands
Hearing the Holy Priest that to her speaks,
And blesseth her with his two happy hands.
How the red roses flush up in her cheeks,
And the pure snow, with goodly vermeil stain
Like crimson dyed in grain:
That even the Angels, which continually
About the sacred altar do remain,
Forget the service, and about her fly,
Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair,