Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/146

 That even th' Angels, which continually About the sacred Altare doe remaine, Forget their service and about her fly, Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre, The more they on it stare. But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground, Are governèd with goodly modesty, That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry, Which may let in a little thought unsownd. Why blush ye, love, to give 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.

Now al is done: bring home the bride againe; Bring home the triumph of our victory: Bring home with you the glory of her gaine; With joyance bring her and with jollity. Never had man more joyfull day then this, Whom heaven would heape with blis, Make feast therefore now all this live-long day; This day for ever to me holy is. Poure out the wine without restraint or stay, Poure not by cups, but by the belly full, Poure out to all that wull, And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine, That they may sweat, and drunken be withall. Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall, And Hymen also crowne with wreathes of vine; And let the Graces daunce unto the rest, For they can doo it best: The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing, To which the woods shall answer, and theyr eccho ring.