But what can we make of the artist beside him,
   working relentlessly, fabricating,
   past maestra, great creatrix, laboring still,

After three hundred years had I not grown
Content with my oblivion and found
Solace in small needs satisfied—one song‚

Preferring ‘resemblance to beauty,’ 
There were some who found more 
Truth in Philoktetes’ rotten legs