VII

    Lo！ in the orient when the gracious light Lifts up his burning head, each under eye Doth homage¹ to his new-appearing sight, Serving with looks his sacred majesty²； 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, 'fore³ duteous, now converted are From his low tract⁴, and look another way： So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon： Unlook'd, on diest unless thou get a son.