By
Isaac Watts
1674 - 1748
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"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, 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 make 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 taught me betimes to love Working and Reading.
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