“
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' 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.
— ANDREW MARVELL