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 country comets, that portend No war, nor prince's funeral, Shining unto no higher end Than to presage the grasses's fall; Ye glow-worms whose officious flame To wandering 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.

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