Long ago the birds have finished their matins， the sun has advanced full high， the dew has gone from the grass， and labors of industry are far in progress， when our sluggard， awakened by his very efforts to maintain sleep， slowly merges to perform life’s great duty of feeding—with him， second only in importance to sleep.
It is yet early spring； there is ice in the north； and the winds are hearty： his tender skin shrinks from exposure， and he waits for milder days. He sleeps long and late， he wakes to stupidity， with indolent eyes sleepily rolling over neglected work； neglected because it is too cold in spring， and too hot in summer， and too laborious at all times，—a great coward in danger， and therefore very blustering in safety. His hands run to waste， his fences are dilapidated， a shattered house—this is the very castle of indolence.