No, no; religion is a spring,

That from some secret, golden mine

Derives her birth, and thence doth bring

Cordials in every drop and wine;

 

But in her long and hidden course

Passing through the earth’s dark veins,

Grows from better unto worse,

And both her taste and colour stains,

 

Then drilling on, learns to increase

False echoes, and confusèd sounds,

And often unawares doth often seize

On veins of Sulphur underground;

 

So poisoned, breaks forth in some clime.

And at first sight doth many please,

But drunk, is puddle, or mere slime

And ‘stead of physic, a disease;

 

Just a tainted stink we have

Like that Samaritan’s dead well,

Nor must we for the kernel crave

Because most voices like the shell.

 

Heal then these waters, Lord; or bring thy flock,

Since these are troubled, to the springing rock,

Look down, great Master of the Feast; O shine,

And turn once more our water into wine!

 

Henry Vaughan ( 1622-1695).