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Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear.

John Armstrong

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John Armstrong
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The blood, the fountain whence the spirits flow The generous stream that waters every part, And motion, vigor, and warm life conveys To every particle that moves or lives.
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Much had he read, Much more had he seen he studied from the life, And in th' original perus'd mankind.
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Virtue and sense are one and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound.
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Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, And tottering empires rush by their own weight.
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Then love of pleasure sways each heart, and we From that no more than from ourselves can fly. Blameless when govern'd well. But where it errs Extravagant, and wildly leads to ill, Public or private, there its curbing pow'r Cool reason must exert.
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How happy he whose toil Has o'er his languid pow'rless limbs diffus'd A pleasing lassitude he not in vain Invokes the gentle Deity of dreams. His pow'rs the most voluptuously dissolve In soft repose on him the balmy dews Of Sleep with double nutriment descend.
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Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, expels diseases, softens every pain.
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Hope is the first thing to take some sort of action.
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Ye youths and virgins, when your generous blood Has drunk the warmth of fifteen summers, now The loves invite now to new rapture wakes The finish'd sense: while stung with keen desire The madd'ning boy his bashful fetters bursts And, urg'd with secret flames, the riper maid, Conscious and shy, betrays her smarting breast.
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Virtue, the strength and beauty of the soul, Is the best gift of Heaven: a happiness That even above the smiles and frowns of fate Exalts great Nature's favourites: a wealth That ne'er encumbers, nor can be transferr'd.
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What Nature bids is good, is wise, and faultless we obey.
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The most beautiful form of compromise is forgiveness.
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Autumn ripens in the summer's ray.
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Your friends avoid you, brutishly transform'd They hardly know you, or if one remains To wish you well, he wishes you in heaven.
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If from thy secret bed Of luxury unbidden offspring rise, Let them be kindly welcom'd to the day.
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Good native Taste, tho' rude, is seldom wrong, Be it in music, painting, or in song: But this, as well as other faculties, Improves with age and ripens by degrees.
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Know, then, whatever cheerful and serene supports the mind supports the body too.
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There are, while human miseries abound, A thousand ways to waste superfluous wealth, Without one fool or flatterer at your board, Without one hour of sickness or disgust.
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Tis not for mortals always to be blest.
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Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave.
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