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 county 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.