The Mower to the Glo-Worms

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 displac'd That I shall never find my home.