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Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, expels diseases, softens every pain.

John Armstrong

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John Armstrong
Grief
Disease
Joy
Pain
Expels
Music
Softens
Every
Exalts
Carpe
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The most beautiful form of compromise is forgiveness.
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For wisest ends this universal Power Gave appetites, from whose quick impulse life Subsists, by which we only live, all life Insipid else, unactive, unenjoy'd. Hence to this peopled earth, which, that extinct, That flame for propagation, soon would roll A lifeless mass, and vainly cumber heaven.
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Tis not for mortals always to be blest.
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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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Hope is the first thing to take some sort of action.
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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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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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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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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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Impious! forbear thus the first general hail. To disappoint, Increase and multiply, To shed thy blossoms thro' the desert air, And sow thy perish'd offspring in the winds.
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What Nature bids is good, is wise, and faultless we obey.
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Know, then, whatever cheerful and serene supports the mind supports the body too.
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To please the fancy is no trifling good, Where health is studied for whatever moves The mind with calm delight, promotes the just And natural movements of th'harmonious frame.
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Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave.
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Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear.
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How sickly grow, How pale, the plants in those ill-fated vales That, circled round with the gigantic heap Of mountains, never felt, nor ever hope To feel, the genial vigor of the sun!
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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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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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Virtue and sense are one and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound.
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Autumn ripens in the summer's ray.
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