Poem 13
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.