A Meditation Upon a Broomstick

This single stick now is ingloriously lying in that neglected corner.

Once it was in a forest, full of sap, leaves and boughs1; now in vain someone has tried to compete with nature by tying that withered2 bundle of twigs3 to its trunk. It is now the reverse of what it was: a tree turned upside down, the branches on the earth, and the root in the air. It is now handled by a maid, and makes other things clean but itself dirty. In the end, worn out in the service of the maids, it is either thrown out, or used as firewood.

When I saw it I sighed, and said within myself: surely man is a broomstick. Nature sends him into the world strong and lusty. He wears his own hair, just like a tree with flourishing leaves and branches. Later, the axe5 of intemperance6 cuts off his green branches and leaves him a withered trunk, and he puts on a wig4 and covers himself with powder. This broomstick is proud of all the branches added to him; yet they are covered with dust. Though the dust is from the finest lady’s chamber7, we ridicule8 it, and despise its vanity. We are partial judges, that is, partial to our own excellencies and other men’s faults.