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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. |
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