In this account of the revolution of the soul about the eternal realities of true being, Vaughan found the suggestion for his poem, “The World.” Instead of the revolution of the soul about true being, he describes the revolution of time about eternity. The figure of the charioteer is absent, too, but it is by the use of the “wing” that those who make the revolution about eternity mount up into the circle, just as in Plato. Time in the poem also is represented as being “driven about by the spheres.” Such coincidences of imagery show that Vaughan found in Plato’s fanciful account of the soul’s preëxistent life in heaven the medium through which he expressed his view of the relation of the life of the present day world to that of eternity. At first he pictures the revolution of the world about the great ring of light which he calls eternity: “I saw Eternity the other night, Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm, as it was bright; And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years, Driv’n by the spheres Like a vast shadow mov’d: in which the world And all her train were hurl’d.” He then describes the lover busied in his trifles,—his lute, his fancies, and his delights. Next moves the statesman, pursued by the shouts of multitudes. The next to follow are the miser and the epicure. “The doting lover in his quaintest strain Did there complain; Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights, Wit’s sour delights; With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure Yet his dear treasure, All scatter’d lay, while he his eyes did pour Upon a flow’r. “The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe, Like a thick midnight fog, mov’d there so slow, He did nor stay, nor go; Condemning thoughts—like sad eclipses—scowl Upon his soul, And clouds of crying witnesses without Pursued him with one shout. · · · · · “The fearful miser on a heap of rust Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust His own hands with the dust, Yet would not place one piece above, but lives In fear of thieves. Thousands there were as frantic as himself, And hugg’d each one his pelf; The downright epicure plac’d heav’n in sense, And scorn’d pretence; While others, slipp’d into a wide excess, Said little less; The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave, Who think them brave; And poor, despisèd Truth sate counting by Their victory.”