Lo in the orient when the gracious lightLifts up his burning head, each under eyeDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,Serving with looks his sacred majesty,And having climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,Resembling strong youth in his middle age,Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
But when from highmost pitch with weary car,Like feeble age he reeleth from the day,The eyes (fore duteous) now converted areFrom his low tract and look another way:
So thou, thy self out-going in thy noon:
Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.
