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 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,
Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.
When the gracious light of the sun rises in the east, each person on earth pays homage to it by gazing upon all its sacred majesty. And even at noon, once the sun has climbed the steep path to the top of the sky, it still looks like a strong young man in his prime and human beings still adore its beauty, watching it pass on its way like a golden king making a pilgrimage. But when the sun grows weary and falls from its highest point, it reels like an old man, and the people who once looked up at it so dutifully stop looking and turn the other way. In the same way, you, wasting your sexual energy in the prime of your life, will die alone and unloved unless you father a son.
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