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.