MEDITATIONS ON A BEOOMSTICK. 
183 
Service of the Maids, ’tis either thrown out of Doors, or condemned 
to its last use of kindling Fires. When I beheld this, I sighed, 
and said within myself, 
JpureTg fMiiit tg a 3SroomjStttfc; 
Nature sent him into the World Strong and Lusty, in a Thriving 
Condition, wearing his own Hair on his Head, the proper Branches 
of this Beasoning Vegetable, till the Axe of Intemperance has 
lopt off his Green Boughs, and left him a withered Trunk: He 
then flies into Art, and puts on a Peruque , valuing himself upon 
an Unnatural Bundle of Hairs, all covered with Powder, that never 
grew on his Head; hut now should this our Broomstick pretend 
to enter the scene, proud of those Birchen Spoils it never bore, 
and all covered with Dust, tho* the sweepings of the Finest Lady’s 
Chamber, we should be apt to Bidicule and despise its Vanity, 
partial Judges that we are! of Our own Excellencies, and other 
men’s faults. 
But a Broomstick , perhaps you’ll say, is an Emblem of a Tree 
standing on its Head; and pray what is Man, but a topsy-turvy 
Creature, his Animal Faculties perpetually a Cock-Horse and 
Kational; His Head where his Heels should he; grovelling on 
the Earth, and yet with all his Faults, he sets up to be an 
universal Beformer and Corrector of Abuses, a Bemover of Griev¬ 
ances, rakes into every Slut’s Corner of Nature, bringing hidden 
Corruptions to the Light, and raises a mighty Dust where there 
was none before, sharing deeply all the while, in the very same 
Pollutions he pretends to sweep away: His last Days are spent in 
Slavery to Women, and generally the least deserving; ’till worn 
to the Stumps, like his Brother Bezom, he’s either kickt out of 
doors, or made use of to Kindle Flames, for others to warm Them¬ 
selves by. 
