’Tis the voice of the Sluggard: I heard him complain,
‘You have waked me too soon! I must slumber again!’
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed
Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.
‘A little more sleep, and a little more slumber!’
Thus he wastes half his days and his hours without number;
And when he gets up he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.
I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn, and the thistle grow broader and higher:
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags;
And his money still wastes, till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit, still hoping to find
He had took better care for improving his mind:
He told me his dreams, talk’d of eating and drinking;
But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart, ‘Here’s a lesson for me!
That man’s but a picture of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who have taught me betimes to love working and reading!’