II.
Those nicer livers, who without thy rays Stir not abroad, those may thy lustre praise; And wanting light--light, which no wants doth know-- To thee--weak shiner!--like blind Persians bow. But where that Sun, which tramples on thy head, From His own bright eternal eye doth shed One living ray, There thy dead day Is needless, and man to a light made free, Which shows that thou canst neither show nor see. Then get thee down! then get thee down! I have a Sun now of my own.