The Sluggard

’Tis the voice of the Sluggard: I heard him complain,

“You have wak’d 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, 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 saunt’ring, 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

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 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 taught me betimes to love working and reading.