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Title: To Lysimachus, The Author Being With Him In London
Author: Henry Vaughan [
More Titles by Vaughan]
Saw not, Lysimachus, last day, when we
Took the pure air in its simplicity,
And our own too, how the trimm'd gallants went
Cringing, and pass'd each step some compliment?
What strange, fantastic diagrams they drew
With legs and arms; the like we never knew
In Euclid, Archimede, nor all of those
Whose learned lines are neither verse nor prose?
What store of lace was there? how did the gold
Run in rich traces, but withal made bold
To measure the proud things, and so deride
The fops with that, which was part of their pride?
How did they point at us, and boldly call,
As if we had been vassals to them all,
Their poor men-mules, sent thither by hard fate
To yoke ourselves for their sedans, and state?
Of all ambitions, this was not the least,
Whose drift translated man into a beast.
What blind discourse the heroes did afford!
This lady was their friend, and such a lord.
How much of blood was in it! one could tell
He came from Bevis and his Arundel;
Morglay was yet with him, and he could do
More feats with it than his old grandsire too.
Wonders my friend at this? what is't to thee,
Who canst produce a nobler pedigree,
And in mere truth affirm thy soul of kin
To some bright star, or to a cherubin?
When these in their profuse moods spend the night,
With the same sins they drive away the light.
Thy learned thrift puts her to use, while she
Reveals her fiery volume unto thee;
And looking on the separated skies,
And their clear lamps, with careful thoughts and eyes,
Thou break'st through Nature's upmost rooms and bars
To heav'n, and there conversest with the stars.
Well fare such harmless, happy nights, that be
Obscur'd with nothing but their privacy,
And missing but the false world's glories do
Miss all those vices which attend them too!
Fret not to hear their ill-got, ill-giv'n praise;
Thy darkest nights outshine their brightest days.
[The end]
Henry Vaughan's poem: To Lysimachus, The Author Being With Him In London
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