Go unto the ant, O slothful one, See her ways and be wise; Which hath not captain, overseer, and ruler, She doth prepare in summer her bread, She hath gathered in harvest her food. Till when, O slothful one, dost thou lie? When dost thou arise from thy sleep? A little sleep, a little slumber, A little clasping of the hands to rest, And thy poverty hath come as a traveller, And thy want as an armed man.