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.
