Medulla Poetarum Romanorum Or, the Most Beautiful and Instructive Passages of the Roman Poets. Being a Collection, (Disposed under proper Heads,) Of such Descriptions, Allusions, Comparisons, Characters, and Sentiments, as may best serve to shew the Religion, Learning, Politicks, Arts, Customs, Opinions, Manners, and Circumstances of the Antients. With Translations of the same in English Verse. By Mr. Henry Baker |
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Sloth.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Sloth.
See Effeminacy.
With much adoe, his Book before him laid,
And Parchment with the smoother Side display'd,
He takes the Papers: lays 'em down again:
And with unwilling Fingers tries the Pen.
Some peevish Quarrel strait he strives to pick:
His Quill writes double: or his Ink's too thick.
Infuse more Water;—now 'tis grown so thin,
It sinks, nor can the Characters be seen.
And Parchment with the smoother Side display'd,
He takes the Papers: lays 'em down again:
And with unwilling Fingers tries the Pen.
Some peevish Quarrel strait he strives to pick:
His Quill writes double: or his Ink's too thick.
Infuse more Water;—now 'tis grown so thin,
It sinks, nor can the Characters be seen.
O Wretch! and still more wretched ev'ry Day!
Are Mortals born to dream their Lives away!
Go back to what thy Infancy began,
Thou who wert never meant to be a Man:
Eat Pap and Spoon-meat: for thy Gewgaws cry:
Be sullen, and refuse the Lullaby.
No more accuse thy Pen, but charge the Crime
On native Sloth, and Negligence of Time.
Think'st Thou thy Master, or thy Friends, to cheat?
Fool, 'tis Thyself, and that's a worse Deceit.—
Th' unfinish'd Tow'rs no longer rise: the Youth
Are Mortals born to dream their Lives away!
Go back to what thy Infancy began,
Thou who wert never meant to be a Man:
Eat Pap and Spoon-meat: for thy Gewgaws cry:
Be sullen, and refuse the Lullaby.
No more accuse thy Pen, but charge the Crime
On native Sloth, and Negligence of Time.
Think'st Thou thy Master, or thy Friends, to cheat?
Fool, 'tis Thyself, and that's a worse Deceit.—
Undisciplin'd in Arms, no longer form
Ports, and strong Fortresses of War: the Works
Neglected stand: the Threat'nings of the Walls,
And tall Machines no more invade the Sky:
But, sticking in mid way, come short of Heav'n.—
Rogues rise before 'tis Day to kill, and thieve:
Will You not wake to save Yourself alive?
If now, when well, you will not leave your Ease,
In vain you'l try when prest with a Disease.—
379
Contracts a Rust, that makes it daily less.
Unless you often plow the fruitful Field,
No Grain, but mixt with Thistles, will it yield.
Ill runs the Horse, and hind-most in the Race,
Who long has been unpractic'd in the Chace.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |