Poems, by Andrew Marvell

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 Princes funeral,

Shining unto no higher end

Then to presage the Grasses fall;

Ye Glo-worms, whose officious Flame

To wandring Mowers shows the way,

That in the Night have lost their aim,

And after foolish Fires do stray;

Your courteous Lights in vain you wast,

Since Juliana here is come,

For She my Mind hath so displac’d

That I shall never find my home.