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 glowworms, 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 may mind hath so displaced That I shall never find my home. |