The Sluggard

'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 pass'd 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 That he took better care for improving his mind: He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking; But scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me," This man's but a picture of what I might be: But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding, Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.