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 passed 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;