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VII.
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 out-going in thy noon,
Unlook'd on diest,
unless thou get a son.
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