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 climbed the steep-up heavenly hill,
          Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
          Yet mortal looks adore his beauty  still,
          Attending on his glorious 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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