 | Miscellaneous poems |  |
The Mower to the Glo-Worms.
I
Ye living Lamps, by whose dear lightThe Nightingale does sit so late,
And studying all the Summer-night,
Her matchless Songs does meditate;
II
Ye Country Comets, that portendNo War, nor Princes funeral,
Shining unto no higher end
Then to presage the Grasses fall;
III
Ye Glo-worms, whose officious FlameTo wandring Mowers shows the way,
That in the Night have lost their aim,
And after foolish Fires do stray;
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IV
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.
| Miscellaneous poems | |