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.