In the perfection of his manly grace:
I make no crook-backs—all my men are gods,
My women goddesses—in outward form.
But there’s my tether! I can go so far,
And go no farther! At that point I stop,
To curse the bonds that hold me sternly back:
To curse the arrogance of those proud gods,
Who say, “Thou shalt be greatest among men,
“And yet infinitesimally small!”
Galatea. Pygmalion!