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Isaac Watts
1674 - 1748


"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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