Lo!
in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts
up his burning head, each under eye
Doth
homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving
with looks his sacred majesty;
And
having climb'd 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 are
From
his low tract, and look another way:
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon:
Unlook'd, on diest unless thou get a son.
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