Sonnet Vii

William Shakespeare

     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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