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Ye living
lamps, by whose dear light
The nightingale does sit
so late,
And, studying all the summer-night,
Her
matchless songs does mediate;
Ye country comets,
that portend
No war, nor prince's funeral,
Shining
unto no higher end
Than to presage the grasses fall;
Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame
To wandering
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
displaced
That I shall never find my home.
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