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Hope is the first thing to take some sort of action.

John Armstrong

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Ye who amid this feverish world would wear A body free of pain, of cares a mind, Fly the rank city, shun its turbid air Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke And volatile corruption, from the dead, The dying, sickening, and the living world Exhal'd, to sully heaven's transparent dome With dim mortality.
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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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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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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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What Nature bids is good, is wise, and faultless we obey.
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Virtue and sense are one and, trust me, still A faithless heart betrays the head unsound.
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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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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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Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones, And tottering empires rush by their own weight.
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The most beautiful form of compromise is forgiveness.
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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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Tis not for mortals always to be blest.
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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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Our greatest good, and what we least can spare, Is hope: the last of all our evils, fear.
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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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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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Music exalts each joy, allays each grief, expels diseases, softens every pain.
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