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

John Armstrong

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John Armstrong
Pain
Expels
Music
Softens
Every
Exalts
Carpe
Diseases
Grief
Disease
Joy

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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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Hope is the first thing to take some sort of action.
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Know, then, whatever cheerful and serene supports the mind supports the body too.
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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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If from thy secret bed Of luxury unbidden offspring rise, Let them be kindly welcom'd to the day.
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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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The most beautiful form of compromise is forgiveness.
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Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, And tottering empires rush by their own weight.
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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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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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Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear.
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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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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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Virtue and sense are one and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound.
John Armstrong
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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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What Nature bids is good, is wise, and faultless we obey.
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You can't help people that don't want to be helped.
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Autumn ripens in the summer's ray.
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Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave.
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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!
John Armstrong