Mower to the Glow-Worms, The. 
By Marvell, Andrew. 


Ye living lamps, by whose dear light
The nightingale does sit so late,
And, studying all the summer-night,
Her matchless songs does mediate;

Ye country comets, that portend
No war, nor prince's funeral,
Shining unto no higher end
Than to presage the grasses 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.