Pygmalion, loathing their lascivious life, Abhorr’d all womankind, but most a wife; So single chose to live, and shunn’d to wed, Well pleased to want a consort of his bed; Yet fearing idleness, the nurse of ill, In sculpture exercised his happy skill, And carved in ivory such a maid, so fair, As nature could not with his art compare, Were she to work; but, in her own defence, Must take her pattern here, and copy hence. Pleased with his idol, he commends, admires, Adores, and last, the thing adored desires: A very virgin in her face was seen, And had she moved, a living maid had been: One would have thought she could have stirr’d, but strove With modesty, and was ashamed to move: Art hid with art, so well perform’d the cheat, It caught the carver with his own deceit: He knows ’tis madness, yet he must adore, And still the more he knows it, loves the more. The flesh, or what so seems, he touches oft, Which feels so smooth that he believes it soft;