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.