Ye indolent and slothful! rise,

View the ant’s labours, and be wise;

She has no guide to point her way,

No ruler chiding her delay:

Yet see with what incessant cares

She for the winter’s storm prepares;

In summer she provides her meat,

And harvest finds her store complete.

But when will slothful man rise?

How long shall sleep seal up his eyes?

Sloth more indulgence still demands;

Sloth shuts the eyes, and folds the hands.

But mark the end; want shall assail,

When all your strength and vigour fail;

Want, like an armed man, shall rush

The hoary head of age to crush.