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.