To Mr. Henry Vaughan, Silurist, on his Poems.

HAd I ador'd the multitude, and thence
Got an antipathy to Wit and Sense,
And hugg'd that fate in hope the World would grant
'Twas good affection to be ignorant;
Yet the least Ray of thy bright fancy seen,
I had converted, or excuseless been;
For each Birth of thy Muse to after-times
Shall expiate for all this Age's crimes.
First shines thy Amoret, twice crown'd by thee,
Once by thy Love, next by thy Poetry:
Where thou the best of Unions dost dispence,
Truth cloth'd in Wit, and Love in Innocence.
So that the muddiest Lovers may learn here,
No Fountains can be sweet that are not clear.
There Juvenal reviv'd by thee declares
How flat man's Joys are, and how mean his Cares;
And generally upbraids the World that they
Should such a value for their Ruine pay.
But when thy sacred Muse diverts her Quill,
The Landskip to design of Leon's hill;
As nothing else was worthy her or thee,
So we admire almost t' Idolatry.
What Savage breast would not be rap'd to find
Such Jewels in such Cabinets enshrin'd?
Thou fill'd with Joys too great to see or count,
Descend'st from thence like Moses from the Mount,
And with a candid, yet unquestion daw,
Restor'st the Golden Age when Verse was Law,
Instructing us, thou who secur'st thy fame,
That nothing can disturb it but my name;
Nay I have hopes that standing so near thine
'Twill lose its dress, and by degrees refine.
Live till the disabused World consent,
All Truths of Use, or Strength, or Ornament,
Are with such Harmony by thee display'd
As the whole World was first by Number made;
And from the charming Rigour thy Muse brings,
Learn, there's no pleasure but in serious things.