"Surely mortal man is a broom-stick"
“This single stick, which you now behold ingloriously lying in that neglected corner, I once knew in a nourishing state in a forest: it was full of sap, full of leaves, and full of boughs: but now, in vain does the busy art of man pretend to vie with nature, by tying that withered bundle of twigs to its sapless trunk. ‘Tis now at best but the reverse of what it was, a tree turned upside down, the branches on the earth, and the root in the air: ’tis now handled by every dirty wench, condemned to do her drudgery, and, by a capricious kind of fate, destined to make other things clean, and be nasty itself. At length, worn to the stumps in the service of the maids, ’tis either thrown out of doors, or condemned to the last use of kindling a fire. When I beheld this, I sighed and said within myself, surely mortal man is a broom-stick…”
– XXVIII. A MEDITATION UPON A BROOM-STICK. By Jonathan Swift, in English Satires (via)