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.

Form: abab9. officious: zealous.