The Mower to the Glo-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 Princes funeral, Shining unto no higher end Then to presage the Grasses fall;

Ye Glo-worms, whose officious Flame To wandring Mowers shows the way, That in the Night have lost their aim, And after foolish Fires do stray;

Your courteous Lights in vain you wast, Since Juliana here is come, For She my Mind hath so displaced That I shall never find my home.