Ye living lamps, by whose dear light
The nightingale does sit so late
And studying all the summer night
Her matchless song does meditate:

Ye country 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 displaced
That I shall never find my home