Prison-Pietie or, Meditations Divine and Moral. Digested into Poetical Heads, On Mixt and Various Subjects. Whereunto is added A Panegyrick to The Right Reverend, and most Nobly descended, Henry, Lord Bishop of London. By Samuel Speed, Prisoner in Ludgate, London |
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On Sloath. |
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184
On Sloath.
The idle man is like the heavie drone,That wasts his time in contemplation:
This present hour he's mightily perplext
With study'ng which way he shall spend the next;
Not like the wise man, who with lesser pain,
Contrives to make Expences prove his Gain.
Winter he loves, because the days are short;
Walks in the Summer, as if A-la-mort.
When in the morning he bethinks to rise,
First stretcheth arms and legs, then wipes his eyes.
His manners lets the morning rise before him;
And when the Sun shines, seeming to adore him,
Then he bethinks to stir; but first affords
A Prayer to God, not making many words,
And sometimes none, well knowing he can do
With thoughts as much as words, though more than few.
He commonly lies still, his bed to keep,
More out of sloath, than a desire to sleep;
Then yawns and turns himself for want of rest;
Anon for Dinner calls, before he's drest:
Which having eat, he seems to be in pain,
At last concludes, 'tis best to sleep again.
That done, he rises, to his Neighbour goes,
And in few words doth thus his minde disclose:
How do you, Neighbour? 'tis a pleasant day;
What's the best news? what price are Mackrel, pray?
The days do lengthen strangely, and the Spring
Bids us attend the Birds that sweetly sing.
Then in the end bethinks to bid adieu;
But first he yawns, and cries, What shall we do?
So he concludes his Speech: Perhaps in fine,
They both agree to drink a pint of Wine.
When from the Church all Auditors are gone,
He is found sleeping in his seat alone.
185
But forfeits that, 'cause he forgets the day.
To be a Jury-man is his disease;
Rather than fetch his wood, he'll chuse to freeze.
He's half a Christian and half a Turk;
His Principle's to steal, and not to work.
He is indeed a proper Standing-pool
That needs must get corruption: 'Tis a rule
Observable, those Pits do soonest stink,
Whose mud assists to overflow the brink.
The idle Soul shall finde his food grow scant;
Sloath casts a man into deep sleeps and want.
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