There are some that profess Idleness in its full dignity， who call themselves the Idle， as Busiris in the play "calls himself the Proud"； who boast that they do nothing， and thank their stars that they have nothing to do； who sleep every night till they can sleep no longer， and rise only that exercise may enable them to sleep again； who prolong the reign of darkness by double curtains， and never see the sun but to "tell him how they hate his beams"； whose whole labor is to vary the postures of indulgence， and whose day differs from their night but as a couch or chair differs from a bed.
These are the true and open votaries of Idleness， for whom she weaves the garlands of poppies3， and into whose cup she pours the waters of oblivion； who exist in a state of unruffled stupidity， forgetting and forgotten； who have long ceased to live， and at whose death the survivors can only say， that they have ceased to breathe.
But Idleness predominates in many lives where it is not suspected； for being a vice which terminates in itself， it may be enjoyed without injury to others； and is therefore not watched like Fraud， which endangers property， or like Pride， which naturally seeks its gratifications in another' s inferiority. Idleness is a silent and peaceful quality， that neither raises envy by ostentation， nor hatred by opposition； and therefore nobody is busy to censure or detect it.
As Pride sometimes is hid under humility， Idleness is often covered by turbulence4 and hurry. He that neglects his known duty and real employment， naturally endeavors to crowd his mind with something that may bar out the remembrance of his own folly， and does anything but what he ought to do with eager diligence， that he may keep himself in his own favor.
Some are always in a state of preparation， occupied in previous measures， forming plans， accumulating materials， and providing for the main affair. These are certainly under the secret power of Idleness. Nothing is to be expected from the workman whose tools are forever to be sought. I was once told by a great master， that no man ever excelled in painting， who was eminently curious about pencils and colors.