Lo! in the orient when the gracious lightLifts up his burning head, each under eyeDoth 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 areFrom his low tract and look another way: So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon, Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.
When en'tring a room everybodyjust hollers. It's really quite bawdy:"he's as hot as the sunlight!"Can you please have a son rightaway, so your sun stays a hottie?