the sluggard

'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 saunt'ring, or trifling he stands.
 I pass'd by his garden, and saw the wild briar,
 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;
 But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Isaac Watts