Behold while 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 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 their service and about her fly Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair The more they on it stare
