Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And stretched out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength.

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale.

Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.

And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the checkered shade. And young and old come forth to play On a sunshine holiday.

Given the choice between accomplishing something and just lying around, I'd rather lie around. No contest.

It's like a lightsaber, on fire.

Certainly work is not always required of man. There is such a thing as a sacred idleness - the cultivation of which is now fearfully neglected.