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Tis not too late to-morrow to be brave.

John Armstrong

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John Armstrong
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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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The most beautiful form of compromise is forgiveness.
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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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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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Tis not for mortals always to be blest.
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Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, expels diseases, softens every pain.
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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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Know, then, whatever cheerful and serene supports the mind supports the body too.
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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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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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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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You can't help people that don't want to be helped.
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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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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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Hope is the first thing to take some sort of action.
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What Nature bids is good, is wise, and faultless we obey.
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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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Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, And tottering empires rush by their own weight.
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