She what was honour knew,

And with obsequious majesty approv'd

My pleaded reason. To the nuptial bower

I led her blushing like the morn; all heaven

And happy constellations on that hour

Shed their selectest influence; the earth

Gave sign of gratulation, and each hill;

Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airs

Whisper'd it to the woods, and from their wings

Flung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book viii. Line 508.