The Mower to the Glow-Worms

Ye living lamps, by whose dear light

The nightingale does sit so late,

And studying all the summer night,

Her matchless songs does meditate;

Ye country comets, that portend

No war nor prince’s funeral,

Shining unto no higher end

Than to presage the grass’s fall;

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame

To wand’ring mowers shows the way,

That in the night have lost their aim,

And after foolish fires do stray;

Your courteous lights in vain you waste,

Since Juliana here is come,

For she my mind hath so displac’d

That I shall never find my home.