'Tis the Voice of the Sluggard! I heard him compain, 'You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again.' As the Door on its Hinges, sol 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 hand 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 taught me betimes to love Working and Reading. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 1 by ALFRED TENNYSON THE REASON by LEONARD BACON (1887-1954) ODE TO THE RIVER TEIGN by JOHN CODRINGTON BAMPFYLDE IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: FAREWELL DARK by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT SWEET WEARINESS by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |