"Thy throne is ringed by amorous cavaliers, And all the air is heavy with the sound Of tiptoe compliment, whilst anxious fears Strike dumb the lesser satellites around. One clasps thy hand, another squires thy chair, Some bask in light shed from the eyes of thee, Some taste the perfume shaken from thy hair, Some watch afar their worshipped deity. All have their orbits, and due distance keep, As round the sun concentric planets move; Smiles light yon lord, whilst I, at distance, weep In the sad twilight of uncertain love. ’Thwart thee, my sun, how many a mincer slips, Whose constant transits make for me eclipse."