And labours hard to store it well,
With the sweet food she makes.

6

In works of labour and of skill

I would be busy too,

For Satan finds some mischief still
For Idle hands to do.、

In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be past,
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.

SONG XI.

The Sluggard.

Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,

"You've 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 litle more sleep, and a little more slum

ber;"

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 hung 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 the 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.

Abroad in the meadows, to see the young lambs

Run sporting about by the side of their dams,

With fleeces so clean and so white; Or a nest of young doves, in a large open cage,

When they play all in love, without anger.

or rage,

How much may we learn from the sight!

If we had been ducks, we might dabble in mud,

Or dogs, we might play till it ended in blood.

So foul and so fierce are their natures; But Thomas, and William, and such pretty

names,

Should be cleanly and harmless as doves, or as lambs,

Those lovely sweet innocent creatures.

Not a thing that we do, nor a word that

we say,

Should injure another in jesting or play, For he's still in earnest that's hurt : How rude are the boys that throw pebbles and mire!

There's none but a madman will throw about fire,

And tell you, "'tis all but in sport."

eyes!

We tread them to dust and a troop of them

dies,

Without our regard or concern :

Yet as wise as we are, if we went to their school,