Whilst the World burns, and all the Orbs below,
In their viperous Ruins glow,
They sink, and unsupported leave the Skies,
Which fall abrupt, and tell their torment in the Noise,
Then see th'  , sedate, and bright,
Cloath'd in Imperial Robes of Light,
His Wings the Winds, rough Storms the Chariot bear,
And nimbler Harbingers before him Fly,
And with officious Rudeness brush the Air,
Halt as he halts, then doubling in their Flight,
In horrid Sport, with one another vie,
And leave behind quick-winding tracts of Light;
Then urging, to their Ranks they close,
And shiv'ring lest they start, a  compose.