’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;