Pure nature fell, as poor Pygmalion did,
In love with its own ivory creation,
And we, possessed by endless greedy Id,
Repaid her for our vivification
By tearing at the raiments that she wore
And suckling harshly from her swollen breasts;
Her face, once fair, now sullen, trenched, and scored,
Her tempting gardens serpents now infest.
Remember what faint Dryope once advised:
Use caution when you pluck a flower's bud,
For every bush could be a nymph disguised.
We humans are just made of dust and mud.
July 11-15
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